


You Heard Me. Take. It. Off.

by meisie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A bizarre love story, A considerable amount of inventive smut, Awkward Romance, BDSM, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Edging, F/M, Forbidden Smut, Introspection, Light Bondage, Modern AU, Orgasm Control, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Spanking, Toys, Typical relationship angst, University Setting, professor bean, switching POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-06-05 21:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15179576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meisie/pseuds/meisie
Summary: Jon and Daenerys are young professors at a spooky gothic pile of a university with a unique relationship. BDSM episodes in a modern setting, a somewhat dark and twisted little romance. Likely the only Modern AU I will ever attempt, enjoy the kink.





	1. Act I Part 1

 

The edginess, the tendency to jump at the slightest sound of footsteps in the hall and the ping of the staff Skype messaging service on her laptop, the wandering heated thoughts that ventured into deliciously dark places, the constant heightened state of arousal she felt between her thighs, plump and damp and sensitive to movement, all of it was part of the game that had her strung out as the afternoon wore on.

But the chill, gloomy day outside her tiny office window was darkening to twilight, the bare trees scraping against the inky sky splotched with the campus lights flickering on, and still he did not call for her. She was beginning to get annoyed, her mind now dwelling on mundane things such as her empty stomach, the errands she needed to run on her way back to her flat, the classes of unruly first years that were scheduled for the morning, and the pile of marking that sat on her desk and gave her an attack of the guilts whenever she glanced at it.

‘Sod it, the haughty, rude so and so,’ she muttered to herself, standing up in a rush to move on with her life. He may be beautiful, with those chocolate eyes and eldritch black curls and that hard, cut body beneath those scruffy jeans and old jumpers. He may have a mouth made for sin, scratchy kisses, nips at her neck and whispered words that made her knees wobble when she remembered what it was like to be shoved against the stone wall of the Staff Club and plundered thoroughly. He may have a smile that flickered across his face like a rare gift, but she wasn’t a bloody ninny to sit here mooning over a man and waiting for him to call her.

The whole proposition was insane, agreeing to it was insanity, borne of heavy lust that charged through her body that night when he had snatched the cigarette from her lips, crushed it out and then crushed her in his arms. The agreement was off, and she was out, she would go home and vent her sexual frustration with her own hands and trusty toy, and wake up in the morning cool, collected, and over him entirely.

Shoving her arms into her cherry red wool coat and fishing for her bag, scowling as resolve strengthened her spine, she was about to leave the room and head to Sainsburys for a bag of crisps and wine when she heard her laptop ping. Sighing, she went to her desk to check who it was, finding a single line of text that could only be from one person.

‘Come to my office. Now.’

That pesky, leaden desire returned in a rush, settling in the cradle of her hips and making her rub her legs together to deaden it. Instead of cursing and giving the finger to the curt message, she left her office, not to go to the store as intended but to take winding, empty corridors through the dusty old building to the smaller, meaner office Jon inhabited, fixed on telling him it was over before it had really begun, but her knock was timid, her breathing ragged, a tingling in her hands and feet when she heard his gravelly, low voice respond.

When she closed the door behind her, she found him sitting behind a scuffed old desk piled with papers, in a plaid shirt with his raven hair scraped back in a tight bun, his brown eyes widening slightly behind his glasses as he took her in. Under her open coat, she wore knee high boots, fishnet tights and a plain purple tweed dress that hugged her petite figure. A cross between a prim lady and a tart, gaining her interesting looks all day from students and staff alike, but not nearly as heated as the dark stare she got now, his eyes travelling from her braided hair, down the valley of her cleavage, to the thighs that were encased in wispy netting.

She felt that stare right between her legs, where she was plump and sticky beneath her plain cotton panties, but she tossed her head and stared not at him, but the wall above his head. ‘What do you want? It’s bloody late, I’ve been waiting to hear from you all day, and I hate waiting.’

‘I want you,’ he said softly. ‘I want to begin what we talked about that night, breaking you in like you said you wanted.’ She twitched at this, her bag slipping through her numb fingers, face heating in a blush but her eyes still evasive. ‘We will start now. Lock that door and take off all those clothes. Leave the tights.’

Her gaze finally found him, hopefully cool though her face burned and her legs trembled. Bloody hell she ached and throbbed for him, and the closed, intent look on his face, the flick of his tongue over his juicy lower lip was not helping. ‘I will not,’ she hissed, keeping her hands at her sides, and his liquid eyes narrowed at her defiance, his reply a purr of menace.

‘You heard me. Take. It. Off.’


	2. Act I Part 2

_A/N: Hey all, there was sufficient interest in the little drabble I did a while back to turn this into an ongoing fic. Rather than make it a proper fic in my usual verbose style I decided to challenge myself and keep it as episodic bits between 1 to 2000 words which I can add to when I’m feeling particularly smutty, switching between Jon and Dany. Slow burn kind of, because you have to follow the Smut Curve. I added a bunch of explicit tags, if BDSM is not your cup of wine, please don’t hang around to whine at me. Enjoy, and feedback means regular updates._

Nice guys finish last, went the old cliché saying, and sometimes he wondered whether his life was living proof of it. So nice, so earnest, so damn stubborn. Ditched by his girlfriend, struggling for research funding, shoved into the shittiest office in this crumbling old building, mocked by students and colleagues alike for his unpopular theories. A family who didn’t want him, a bunch of mates who would rather get him good and drunk than listen to his problems. He went through life trying to be a sweet boy, a good man, passionate about what he believed in, beggaring himself through eight years of study, a faithful partner despite the dragging boredom, and where had it gotten him?

The deep secret of his soul was there were parts of him that weren’t so nice, not that he let many people see them. He had a temper which he used to vent on the football field, and later in the odd fist fight, on one memorable occasion knocking some twat into the gutter for groping his now ex- girlfriend. He got jealous and resentful and pissy like anyone else, particularly of his smug, successful colleagues. His mind would wander dark paths when he was bored, agitated or horny, dwelling on all the things he would like to do to a woman who was sufficiently bold and accommodating.

Not so much watching and fiddling with himself over porn on the internet, it was too much of the same nasty shit to want to wallow for long. But he liked to ponder it, and read about it, he liked to imagine what it would feel like to have complete control over someone, and to exert perfect control over himself. A few times he would try to talk his ex into it, but it wasn’t her thing. He thought he would never meet a woman he would feel brave enough with to lay it all out on the table and gauge the reaction, the kind of black desires that swarmed in his thoughts, until he met Dany.

Her hair was ridiculous, her laugh ridiculous, she was so stunningly pretty she rendered most men dumb as rocks and staring at their feet, or her tits. Emboldened by pints of ale he had talked to her in the Staff Club, and they kept talking at intervals since. But it wasn’t until that night outside in the cold sharing a smoke, when he’d plucked it from her ripe mouth and decided to kiss her, that he knew somehow. The way she wilted and whimpered in his arms, slumped when he shoved her against the wall to get the full length of her against him, bared her throat so he could bite down, he knew then, as instinctive as breathing in and out, misted in the winter dark.

The dark made him bold, the beer he’d drunk bolder, he’d said things and done things that had her sobbing and writhing and finally nodding, her marked neck a pale stalk, as pale as her mass of hair as she bowed her head in submission, then broke away rattled to take the towpath along the river, a tiny figure drifting between the security lights. He watched her go, as hard as a bat and blinking stupidly at the fog of lust, and his own temerity.

He dithered over it for days afterwards, not knowing where to begin, not even sure it had actually happened, but as the day drew to a close and he found himself alone and brooding in his office, he had swished his mouse and found himself typing. Typing his first command was far easier than speaking it aloud. He was a man of few words, preferring to bury himself in figures and equations, papers and books, but if he was to get what he wanted out of her and give her the same, he would have to find them.

He was aware of tittering remarks and bawdy quips about him among the female staff and postgrads. The Hot Dork, Silent and Deadly, Small Dark and Handsome, his gossipy mate Sam had told him some of it, he’d heard the rest himself. He’d never heard any of it from Dany, only from her striking blue eyes and wide lips, her face flushed with drink, her small hand on his arm, a knee knocked against his under the table. He could see it in her now, her eyes evading his as she hovered, the coiled posture of her body beneath her red coat, her hands fluttering with uncertainty.

His voice was gruff as he said it again, the assertive words now spilling from his lips like an untapped well. There was a knot in his guts, a hardness straining against the faded denim of his jeans as he wound himself up, and her. He should rise and kiss her, try some pretty preliminaries, but it wasn’t what either of them needed.

‘You heard me. Take. It. Off.’

The look on her face was defiant, which he very much liked. She would not make it easy on him, and disobedience would make it easier to explore the many ways he could bend her to his will, but she reached behind her and turned the lock on the door. She shed her coat and handbag to the floor. A hand went to the zipper at the side of her prim school mistress dress. He was not a tall man, so she suited him perfectly. So petite her bright head fitted under his chin, but with curved hips and arse and breasts that filled his hands sweetly. Dainty yet tough, with her brilliant mind and the determined jut of her jaw and her earthy laugh.

He had groped as much as he could that night before she slipped out of his arms, and now he was seeing it. His mouth went dry, his cock twitched angrily. Plain bra and panties of black cotton, fishnet tights of a wide weave that emphasised the pretty shape of her legs, the catch of the bra flicked and her breasts bouncing free, high and round and tipped with dark nipples that tightened in the chill of the office. He pushed his chair back to make space for her as she advanced, still in her high black boots, his brain reeling at the sight and scent of her, a heavy French perfume and warm musk.

No matter her distant expression, he could smell her arousal. He’d done that to her by touching her mind, when he finally touched her she would come in a heartbeat, but this wasn’t how this worked. If she handed over control in truth she would only be allowed to come if he permitted it. Words backed up in his throat, and he cleared it abruptly as she rounded the scuffed old desk and stood before him, perching on the edge, her eyes finally meeting his. As blue as the deep ocean with flecks of green and gold, and very wary, but her painted lips softened and she sat at ease.

She knew she had nothing to be shy of about her body, but the situation was awkward, and trust would be a hard-won thing. _Slow, take this slow_ , he whispered to himself fiercely, but God his balls ached, God he wanted to rip a hole in those slutty tights, push her panties aside and put his mouth on her, drink in her scent and wetness, then sink to the root and pound her to oblivion, but he couldn’t. This would be as much torment for him as it would be for her.

‘We need to discuss terms,’ he said in hoarse rattle, allowing himself to slide a hand up a warm, springy thigh to bring her closer. She blinked at his touch and shifted a little, wetting her pink lips nervously. ‘First of all, you need a safe word. Tell me what it is.’

‘Dracarys,’ she said firmly, as if she already had it in her mind for some time, and he fought a smile at the made-up word, pretty and complex, just like her. The corner of her mouth twitched at him, and he couldn’t resist rising up to kiss it softly, though he was in the zone now, a bossy, demanding bastard. The scent and warmth of her filled his nose and shorted out his mind, his hands went to her arse and cupped it, kneading it through the netting of her tights. Her hands slid around his face boldly and she bit him, her little teeth sinking into his bottom lip sharply, a warbling moan between them.

If he didn’t assert authority he would lose it here and now. He moved quickly, pushing her away and flipping her over on her face, the office chair scooting out from under him at the abruptness of the move. She was bent across the desk, that luscious arse in the air, her frail wrists caught in his fist. There was a tattoo on her left shoulder of a dragon in flight, black and red and whimsical. She whimpered and struggled for a moment, then lay passive, arching her spine to present herself like a good sub, like she had already been pondering the rules of all this.

‘What am I allowed to call you?’ was his next query.


	3. Act I Part 3

 

_A/N: Thanks for your interest, kink fans. In this piece, Dany wonders what she’s gotten herself into when her boundaries start to be tested. Tags say porn without plot, but there will be plenty of inner musings and context so it’s not utter garbage. Sexy as hell moodboard kindly provided by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

She didn’t want to examine it too closely, how she ended up in this place, in this awkward position, putting herself in the uncertain hands of a new and nervous lover. But she always knew there was a streak of wildness in herself, a darkness on her tongue that she longed to taste in another.

Her private thoughts tended toward restraint and being used as a willing object, a healthy twist of pain with the pleasure. She had no idea where it came from, all she knew that she needed to express it, and until now there had been no one who was worthy of exploring it with. Nice guys or complete bastards, it didn’t matter, she had to sense it in them, that nagging curiosity, the black thoughts expressed in long, considering looks, the right kind of caress or kiss, the sense of sharp teeth behind soft lips, bruises from grasping hands, a hand on her arse leaving a stinging palm print.

She had eyed Jon Snow for weeks across crowded rooms and passing in hallways, demure and silent, then voluble and flirty, circling him like he was prey though he was under the impression that he was the aggressor. He was ridiculously good looking, but seemed completely unaware of it. He was often surrounded by female staff and students emitting near audible hums of sexual excitement, but he seemed unaware of that too. He wasn’t a braggart or a player, hanging around with a bunch of louts leering at birds, he seemed earnest and sweet, and so very quiet and devoted to his studies.

And yet there was something behind those big, inky brown eyes that stroked an invisible, atavistic spot inside her and made her listen to that nagging voice, and when he finally made a move on her that drunken night in the staff club, she _knew_. To indulge those private thoughts required a degree of trust, and by observing him carefully she thought she could risk it. The fact that one of his first questions was what her safe word would be had dimmed down her fear to a piquant murmur in the back of her head.

She had never been more excited, and had never been more rattled. She could have had him the conventional way and taken pleasure from it, reeled him in like a pretty fish on her line, a few more pints, then back to her flat to get those clothes off and find out what that deliciously hard, compact body looked like and whether the old wives’ tale about big feet was in fact true. But she didn’t, she had caught him to find her secret desires could all be hers if she bowed her head and surrendered, instead of laughing it off or slapping his face.

And now here she was, facedown across his desk with her arse in the air, so wet her thighs were sticky with it, the ache in her cunt unbearable though he hadn’t touched her. Her self-control was useless, and she was so used to getting what she wanted that putting her pleasure in the power of another to be doled out as he pleased was going to be very hard without demanding gratification, and being suitably punished for her stroppiness.

She had read about it, explored images that sucked her down into a rabbit hole online until she had frigged herself into a stupor and felt sick with it. She had fantasised over what it would be like if she did find the one to control her, but the reality was different. Reality was frustration and struggling to remain detached when the whole exercise was breaking down her walls of reserve, and breaking her in until she was the perfect submissive vessel.  

‘What am I allowed to call you?’

 _Bad girl. Naughty slut. Dirty, filthy slut,_ the nagging voice whispered in her ear. _Your whore, your little whore._ She quivered at the possibilities, but no. She was a feminist, she would kick any man in the balls for calling her such things in everyday life, and she resented wanting to hear them fall from his lips in that low, raspy voice. Resented it badly. ‘Dany,’ she said stubbornly, clenching her jaw to prevent her letting those words loose.

She should have been prepared for it, but she yelped nonetheless as the first blow cracked across her left cheek, gripping the edge of the desk and hissing as the sting washed across her skin. There was a grunt, then a second slap on her right, so hard she shunted forward and knocked a stack of papers to the floor. ‘Not the answer I wanted,’ he growled. ‘I know you’re thinking about them under all that pretty hair, now tell me.’

She could feel the pain licking between her legs, her panties clinging to her like a second skin. She spat strands of hair out of her eyes, seeing only the grey office door with its fire evacuation sign. He was invisible, a presence lurking behind her, ragged nails toying with the weave of her tights, shifting her underwear to one side so it bunched uncomfortably and he could admire the rosy pink burn of his hand.

‘Sub,’ she whispered, tightening her grasp on the desk to brace for another smack. There was two sharp cracks on each cheek, she cried out in pain and squeezed her thighs together, only to have them nudged apart again by a denim clad knee. ‘Slut,’ she forced out between gritted teeth, earning a purr of approval. ‘Your little whore.’ A hand swirled over her aggravated skin, then a swat high on each buttock had her whimpering, but she would give no more. ‘That is all I give you. If you think I’m going to put up with being called bitch or kitten I’m walking out right now.’

To her surprise, he laughed, a deep, affecting chuckle she felt in the pit of her belly, and she was rewarded with a light drag of fingertips down the groove of her spine. ‘I respect that.’ The fingers hooked into the top of her tights, drawing them down along with her panties. She trembled and swallowed a moan as he traced the cleft of her arse, delving in to skim over both entrances. ‘Tell me what you will permit me to use.’

The touch was too light to get any relief, and she was mildly ashamed about how wet she was, so liquid his fingers were instantly coated in it. She heard him groan a little in his throat, and she lifted her bottom higher, hoping he would plunge his hand inside her and finger her roughly. A few rough thrusts and she would come, and God she needed it. Instead she considered his question, how best to reply to wind him to breaking point. The truth, eloquently phrased.

‘I’ve never let a man take my arse before, you would be the first to use me like that. But I hope you will use my cunt and my mouth first, as I am a little afraid…’

His breathing quickened in pace, and he was suddenly less aloof, his touch firmer, an exploration that found her neglected clit and circled it. She pressed eagerly into the manipulation, red faced and red arsed, thinking about what it would feel like to be filled completely, every single orifice until she was spent and sore and broken. ‘That…that will be part of your training,’ he said unsteadily. ‘But if I want to do nothing but fuck that round arse of yours from every angle, you will learn to take it, and love it.’

The throb she felt in her core at the threat meant it was really no threat at all, she let out a telltale warbling moan and hid her face in her arms, bucking into the idle pinches of her clit. She felt empty inside, a void in need of filling, so very empty she knew her toy at home would be a bitter satisfaction. She wanted to beg and whine to be taken now, but it was too soon just yet.

It was merely torturous words and touches, feeling out her boundaries, an exploration of her all pink and saturated and awkwardly trussed by her tights, the intricate folds and crevices of her waxed cunt, the puckered hole between her buttocks. A muttered curse of real distress and the hand withdrew, and she heard quick, jerky sounds of a belt being loosened, a zipper and a rustle of fabric, the squeak of the office chair wheels as he sat back down.

Bewildered, she risked a look over her shoulder, finding him with unravelling hair, as if he’d been fiddling with the crow black curls while he interrogated her. His eyes were just as dark and quite wild, his full lips worried red and swollen. He had skin like the light of the moon, pale but not pasty, the contrast to his hair and neatly trimmed beard so alluring she had swooned over him quietly from the first time she saw him. The blush on his cheekbones from expelling all those wicked words was as red as hers.

Her wary gaze travelled downwards to find what she expected and yet still she sucked in a breath of shock at the boldness. Heavy and hard and engorged, the fat tip an angry red, a pretty shape that made her even more needy. His cock was as beautiful as the rest of him, and likely to stretch her satisfyingly the first time he yielded and took her. She wanted it _now_ , not after days of toying with her like a languid black cat at a mousehole. She followed the stroke of his fist from root to tip, feeling saliva fill her mouth in preparation.

‘Get on your knees slut, and show me how good you are at swallowing my cock,’ he said absently, eyes shuttering behind his glasses as he spoke. ‘If you are very, very good, perhaps I will let you come rather than sending you home.’

She should have hated how quickly she moved to obey, but she had reached a strange and novel place inside herself where her dignity didn’t matter, her boundaries were there to be crossed, a quiet place of peace. She dropped to the carpet, legs tangled in her lowered tights, her hands sliding up thighs bunched with muscle under worn denim. She knelt before him, veiling her eyes as he’d veiled his, and bent to her task, hoping for her reward.


	4. Act I Part 4

_A/N Hello readers, trying to get back in the mood for writing after exceedingly shitty personal stuff dragging me down lately. I’m not ready to tackle Up Against the Wall yet, so have a snippet of kink fic. Feedback will cheer me up, if you can find coherence afterwards._ _Basically this chapter ends the first act._

He had tapped that well, that fathomless well inside himself, incredulous and nervous at the words, thoughts and actions that gushed from him in a steady torrent. This was his reward, to have the smartest, prettiest and most ambitious woman on the faculty falling to her knees before him, all sloping curves and dishevelled hair, bound by her tights around her knees, her pink piquant tongue snaking out to lick his cock from the base to the tip.

She started slowly, making him whimper like a virgin boy and squirm in his chair, bathing him in slow licks, her small hands gripping his thighs, both of them after he growled at her in denial, forbidding her from touching herself for relief. Every inch of his cock, and then his balls lovingly attended to, and then her wide lips, the lipstick smeared and nibbled away as he had spanked and taunted her, stretching around his girth, a mouthful of spit dribbled on him, then down, down, cheeks so taut the eyes rolled into the back of his head.

He could smell her, the sharp, sweet tang of her cunt leaking with her arousal, images flicked behind his eyelids as she buried him in her throat and choked. Her pink, bare slit below her firm, inflamed buttocks, the tight hole between her cheeks. He wanted all of it, all of her, threading his fingers in her bright hair and holding his length deep in her mouth as he drove himself mad over the possibilities. He didn’t want to break her, but damn he wanted to break her in.

He wanted her bound to his bed on all fours to be used as he pleased, his ultimate end goal. Discipline if she had earned it, then her mouth, then her cunt, and her arse. He wanted to earn her incoherent cries of distress and pleasure, then her thanks when she was permitted to come, only when he had filled every entrance to her body and soul with his seed and she was a boneless wreck.

He didn’t know how he would manage to draw it out, a series of sessions like this until they were both ready for it. A true test of his willpower. But this was a privilege, an intricate game of denial and fulfilment that ended with her compliant body pinned and fully open to him.

The fantasy was both delicious and disgusting, a foul richness on his tongue. He cracked open his lids and checked on her, worried that she wasn’t with him, that he was presuming too much over what she would permit. She was so dutiful, taking nearly all of him and driving him higher though her face was red and her eyes watering with her efforts, popping him loose to catch some air before resuming, her wicked tongue circling his head and teasing the folded back skin before she dived.

He felt the surge through his belly, the tightening in his balls. His fingers gripped her hair tighter and he held her where he needed her, the scrape of her teeth and the tickle of her tongue as he fucked her mouth, her mewls and gasps, her pleading eyes glimpsed before he could no longer look at her. He lost himself to it, pumping in her throat with animal grunts until he cried out and spilled, coming as hard as he ever had, Dany backing off not to escape but to _show_ him his selfish pleasure.

His copious seed on her tongue and her lips, her savouring it with a smirk and then swallowing, then slumping back on her haunches and wiping her red face, small breasts heaving as she sucked in much needed air. He felt foggy and stupid, tongue tied as the release thrummed through every vein and washed over his skin, unable to move or think, leaving her hanging as he absently stroked himself then tucked his spent cock away in his old jeans.

Shame flooded through him in the aftermath, the sight of her on the motheaten carpet, eyes lowered, trembling with her own need. If he was a cruel bastard too interested in stringing her out, he would bark at her to get up, get dressed and leave, withhold her pleasure until another time. But she had turned up, given him her key and her trust, and then rewarded him exquisitely. And he wanted to taste her, he wanted to bury his face in that maddening scent and mark himself with it, and then go home to his flat, sleep and dream of her, the sweetest sleep of his troubled recent life.

‘Get up, good little whore,’ he whispered at her, a twitch in his sated groin at the words. After he was finished with her he would likely be going home hard as a club again. He offered her a hand off the floor, rewarded her with a quick kiss on her abused mouth, and rose to back her towards the desk again. ‘You’ve been such a good girl I’m going to feast on that cunt of yours.’

At the purr in her ear, she whimpered and blinked, obediently bending backwards over the surface under his weight. He fumbled at her legs and drew off her boots, tights and panties, kissing her again with slow jabs of his tongue as she boldly grabbed at his arse and ground against his loins. ‘Put your feet up on the desk and spread your legs. Open for me.’

Her hands fell away as he rose, gripping the sides of the desk as she drew up her smooth legs and opened her cunt to him, a strip of silver hair leading to a little purse of glistening flesh, her clit protruding out for the first flick of his tongue, so wet, a deep pink, tasting of salt and spice and heat as he sat back down in the chair, scooted forward, pulled her apart and put his mouth on her in a tight seal.

At her sharp wail, the twitching of her thighs under his palms, he shot a warning look up her body, reluctantly removing his tongue from her core to chastise. ‘Try and hold out as long as you can, if you come too fast you will be punished for it later.’ But no, she was stroppy, she wanted to be punished, she wanted to goad him, riding his face to get more friction, sobbing and gasping and battling against his hands so she could clamp her thighs around his head. The heat of her increased like a lit flame, his probing tongue slid through a flood of wetness.

With a frustrated noise, he gave in and sucked at her clit, poking it repeatedly, easing inside her cunt with three rough fingers, enjoying the fast grip of her bumpy walls around his hand. If she wanted to come, he would make her come so hard it destroyed her, left her wobbly as a colt as she took the walk home through the campus, and it was easy, so easy. She went completely rigid, and then she overwhelmed all of his senses and shorted out his mind. Howling loud enough for any passing cleaner in the hallway to hear, a gush of new wetness in his mouth, ripples under his flicking tongue, her cunt clamping around his fingers, and the addictive scent of her blooming.

Hard and aching beneath his zipper, he ignored it and lapped her up eagerly until she collapsed and nearly slithered off the desk into his lap, batting his head away as the sensitivity became too much, lifting a trembling hand to her face to hide behind as she sat up and faced him. His beard was soaked with her, and he wiped it away absently as they eyed each other warily, she far more vulnerable than he at this point, but he knew that she was the one in control.

Dany had handed him her key, but she could easily withdraw it. She could speak the mythical word, ignore his calls and messages, deny the desires that squirmed beneath his surface, move on to a better man with better prospects and less kinks. But the edgy look in her azure eyes faded to be replaced by a glow that matched the glow of her skin. She was a vision, a siren, bare and beautiful on his desk, scattering his work and his wits to the four winds.

‘You’re secretly a very bad man, Jon Snow,’ she said softly. ‘Lucky for me.’


	5. Act II Part 1

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_A/N: Hello, kink fans, have some Sunday morning smutty meanderings. This is the first part of the next scenario, where Dany enjoys some more of the gentleman/very naughty boy dichotomy. I will be a pretentious wanker of a writer and do each scenario in four-part acts. Enjoy, and feedback incoherent or otherwise is appreciated. Lovely new board provided by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

Jon Snow was a secret, a delectable secret she kept in the pit of her belly, in a strange pocket of darkness in her busy mind, making her clothes too tight and chafing, her skin prickle and itch, and her loins plump and damp and always ready. She was perpetually on edge, jumpy and nervy, always waiting for the next ping of her messaging service, the ding of a text. She still wasn’t sure whether she liked what it was doing to her, this preoccupation, this obsession for more, always more. It was never enough.

To everyone else, they were merely friendly, flirty acquaintances, sitting a bit too close in the Staff Club over drinks maybe, shooting each other smouldering, significant looks that raised some eyebrows. Her friend Missy was observant enough to note something was afoot, and had probed her for salacious details, but she kept her silence, merely smirking annoyingly until her friend rolled her eyes and threw up her hands.

‘I’m too bloody busy to be wasting my time with men,’ she said dismissively, and it was true, and yet she was. Her work was slipping a bit, she was dreamy and absentminded and had to pull herself up repeatedly to focus on her classes, dull staff meetings, her research group. All she wanted was to be back in that poky office, stripped bare and whimpering in need, trying to hold herself back from her release to please him, to be rewarded than more than just his hands and mouth on her empty cunt, his cock in her throat, the punishing blows across her buttocks for failing yet again.

She had never failed in anything she did in life, and she both hated and loved the new experience. An overachiever in every field, buried under the weight of expectations internal and external, but her control over her own desire was a constant battle, and the failure was both maddening and stirring. The chastisement was delicious, a rain of spanks until her bottom was sore and inflamed, her arousal glistening on her thighs to be nuzzled and lapped up until she failed again. And the anticipation, oh God the anticipation of what it would feel like when he finally cracked and fucked her with that pretty, lengthy cock of his, the anticipation was likely better than the reality.

_I would like to take you out to dinner Saturday, then take you home for more training. Make sure you’re prepared, and bring the items we talked about. I will meet you at Enzo’s on the High Street at 7._

_J x_

Instead of a text message, it was a handwritten note in a creamy envelope left on her desk, a slanted black scrawl, unruly yet elegant. She had tucked it away in her bag instead of shredding it, face flaming in a blush, her belly already coiling with anticipation. She had spent two hours primping and dolling herself up so she was clean and sweet and appealing, a demure wine red frock that showed a hint of bosom, aggravating garter belt and stockings instead of tights, a bra that lifted her meagre tits, eschewing panties for the slutty thrill of being exposed and prepared.

And the bag, the black satin bag full of the items he had sent her to buy for herself, wanting her to be comfortable with what was to be used on her, money handed over in a wad like she was an especially good whore he had paid off, another thrill she didn’t want to examine too closely. The bag sat by her heeled feet under the table, heavy and accusatory, likely to cause massive embarrassment if it spilled its contents in the restaurant.

She still felt she didn’t know him that well, her moody Northman with his thick accent and shadowy past, despite the trust she had given him, so without the distraction of other people, or the preoccupation of each other’s bodies, the date started off awkwardly. A lot of staring then evading and awkward conversation, trying to coax his smooth yet throaty voice to give her some glimpses of who he really was. She was relieved to find he wasn’t an arsehole who measured each hungry bite she took of her meal, or judged the three courses she ordered, smiling approvingly as she munched, mock huffing when she nicked a piece of ciabatta from his plate, his lovely chocolatey eyes darkening when she moaned in bliss with a fat spoonful of Tiramisu in her mouth.

‘I’m going to have to roll you out of here in a wheelbarrow, greedy lass,’ he teased her lightly, lighting up when she giggled. He was both dark and sweet, and she was a lucky girl, no matter that he seemed to enjoy tormenting her a little too much. Her legs pressed together under her filmy skirts, wondering what he had in mind for tonight. Perhaps she could break him instead, entice him into filling her up with more than just his rough fingers in her, grinding against that spot high up that made her break apart so he could inevitably punish her for it.

She mused over what else he wanted from her, the threat of using her arse exclusively instead of her cunt, and the twitch she felt made her audibly gasp and shift in her seat, causing him to study her over the rim of his glass. ‘Aye, I’m keen to get out of here soon as well,’ he husked at her, and she pressed her lips together and nodded. Dressed up for once in tight grey trousers and an ice blue shirt unbuttoned to show the elegant lines of his throat, his wild, inky curls subdued and scraped back, he was a fine sight, but he would look even finer bare arsed.

She had never seen him entirely naked, never seen him vulnerable except for the glimpses of worry and uncertainty in his earthy brown eyes. She wondered if he would let her sleep beside him tonight when he had finished with her, let her invade the high walls he had built around himself, to see him at ease, his long lashes fanned over his cheeks, hair unbound against a pillow he clutched to himself in slumber. ‘I like being with you anywhere, but especially alone,’ she said softly, watching his pink, cushiony lips curl in response, a hint of shyness in his dark gaze instead of the expected smugness.

His car was a battered old Landrover that was entirely unsuited to the narrow streets of their University town, unexpected and speaking of a country upbringing and wide, untamed moorlands spiked with jagged rocks, brushed by cold winds. He helped her climb in, tucking her into the ripped passenger seat, but was silent as he drove her across town to a narrow terrace house, silent as he ushered her up three flights of stairs and let them inside. A tiny space, neat and spare, a kitchen on one wall, a door to a bathroom, a sagging leather couch and an elaborate bed instead of the expected Ikea futon, an ironwork headboard and footboard, most convenient for binding a willing lover hand and foot to be used as he pleased.

Of course her mind went there instantly, making her legs feel like jelly as she heard the door bolted behind her. She dropped her handbag on the floor, the satin bag on the plain white coverlet, kicking off her heels and curling her toes in the Turkish rug, a crawling sensation between her shoulder blades as she felt him looming behind her. Hands wrapped around her, drawing her into a full-length embrace, the scent of musky skin and cologne and the dying winter cold, a kiss on the top of her head then her black wool coat drawn from her shoulders.

‘I forgot to tell you how pretty you look tonight,’ he purred in her ear. ‘Now, be a good girl and show me what you bought for us.’

She slipped into her assumed role, bowing her head and moving to obey though an annoying blush was heating her face, emptying the bag on the duvet, the fruits of her online splurge, keeping her eyes on the items and not on him. Everything was black; the soft leather cuffs for her wrists, the lengthier ones for her ankles, her own personal toy, thick and flexible, a riding crop, two sleek plugs of an intriguing shape, one small and the other more daunting, a length of black silk rope.

She had been surprised at herself when she chose them, these outcomes of her darkest thoughts, surprised and aroused. She had touched herself afterwards, thinking of how he might use them on her, though he had forbidden her from masturbation, frigged herself off into a defiant, sobbing climax into her pillow, hunched over with her arse raised, fingers slippery with her come, imagining herself bound, beaten and plugged, then taken in hard, fast jabs until she was bruised deep inside.

She could hear his heavy, ragged breaths, feel his hands cupping her bottom, but she didn’t slant her eyes to look at him, she waited. ‘Good, very good, exactly what I wanted,’ he purred at her. ‘What you want, is what I want.’

She relaxed into the heft of his body behind her, bowing her head further, reassured by the words. She had pleased him by pleasing herself, and it was exactly how it should be. She felt her trust solidify in that dark pocket in her mind, even as he pushed her face down across the bed and lifted her skirts, ready to continue her initiation.


	6. Act II Part 2

_A/N: A healthsome Spring morning seems a good time to sit cross legged on the deck with a pack of smokes and write some kink, ignoring husband’s demands to weed the veggie garden. Continuing the fun balancing act between romance and porn, enjoy all, comments or crickets I had a good time writing._

 

Words had squirmed around in his head over dinner, as elusive as moths. Pretty words, engaging words. Words that showed her he was just as interested in her inner world as well as her body. He was no great seducer or smooth talker, which leant a constant air of incredulity to the situation he was in with Dany. Usually he was snapped up by bold, bossy women, not the reverse. He wanted to tell her how honoured he was, how fascinating he found her, but the only words he could find other than clumsy niceties were the dark ones, the commanding ones.

He was playing a role he’d always longed to play, but there was more to it. By inviting her here he had silently revealed a chink in the wall he surrounded himself with, spilling light if she would but see it, but she was immersed in her own role now, edgy and visibly tense as she bent over the pristine surface of his bed with her skirts drawn up slowly, the items he had sent her to buy an obscene but fascinating tangle of oddments.

They would talk afterwards maybe, he would invite her to stay and sleep in his arms, he would face her in the morning, gummy eyed and mussed up and yawning, his own unimpressive self. Her makeup would be smeared, her unique silvery gold hair in knots, she would be ripe and warm and soft, she would be self-conscious and in need of a shower and coffee, no longer a goddess that he had the urge to despoil. Then, only then would he feel the confidence to snatch those words from the air and offer them up.

Being around her, even over drinks in the club or passing her in the hallways of the faculty building, always gave him discomfort, a tension in his belly, his cock refusing to behave itself, his preference for tight clothes giving an edge of embarrassment to his desire, like a horny schoolboy with a foxy teacher. Dragging the initiation out in slow increments meant he was making it worse for himself, no matter how many times he came in her throat or over her breasts and belly he wanted all of her, the primitive part of his male self not convinced by the delayed gratification.

He knew she was longing for it as well, she was highly vocal and disobedient for a submissive, which drove him deliciously mad, trying to tempt him into taking her, snapping and filling her tight, sweet cunt and ending her torment. Although she hadn’t mentioned it since her agreement over the use of all the entrances to her body, there was also her arse, the tiny dimple between her cheeks that he thought about too much but hadn’t yet touched. How she would grip him like a vise, wail and gripe in pain until her distress became moans and purrs.

His hands formed into fists as he imagined it, a wince on his face, a twitch in his trousers tenting the fabric. Guilt and lust a dark current through his veins as he watched her bend over, bare but confined in stockings and suspenders, a puddle of delicate fabric around her crouched body. He was obsessed with the taste of her, slippery and salty sweet, the shape of her buttocks, the strong tendons of her inner thighs. Her breasts small but filling his palms nicely, the spot beneath her ear that made her whine sharply when he bit down. So dainty, but scary as hell.

He wanted to hurt her, but he didn’t. He wanted to impress her, but he wanted to be himself and all the quirks and weirdness that came with it.

He vaulted over the barrier of his hesitation, reaching deep down in his guts for control, touching her only with his voice, low and gravel toned in his own ears. ‘Tell me what you did when you bought these toys for us.’

Her response was a pretty lie, muffled in the duvet, her delicate hands flexing. ‘I…I didn’t do anything. I thought about them, how you would use them on me, but I didn’t touch myself, I promise.’

His right hand unfurled at last and darted out, cracking her hard on one smooth buttock, a gratifying yelp his reward. ‘Tell me the truth, slut. All of it. Tell me what you did, what you thought.’

‘You told me not to, I didn’t,’ she continued to lie, her defiance felt in his loins, making him pause to adjust his painful erection before he hit her again, a matching brand that made her jolt forward and whimper. He liked using his hand on her, but he rummaged for the riding crop, wondering what possessed her to buy it but very pleased she had. The implement left a livid stripe across her creamy skin, elicited a strangled sound, her thighs parting to reveal the gleam of arousal on her folds. Carefully, he flicked the tip over her cunt once, twice, not too hard, and her blissful cry told him why she had bought it.

‘I…I touched myself,’ she confessed. ‘I lay on my back and used my fingers on me and in me, thinking of you.’ Her wavering voice was firming, she wriggled enticingly, inviting another flick of the crop across her tender flesh. ‘I imagined my hands behind my back, my feet bound…your cock in me deep, my arse plugged…you telling me to come. I came very hard, then I slept, all sticky and messy. Punish me for it, it was worth it.’

He closed his eyes and struggled to breathe as he absorbed the tale, his balls in a knot, an angry surge behind his lids, confused images and urges, red and black and creamy white skin. His fingers felt numb and useless, but he tightened his grip on the crop and laid it across her round bottom several times, multiple pink welts, a series of protesting cries and moans. When he dropped it at last, his trembling fingers found her molten, disappearing into her greedy cunt to the knuckle, splaying to stretch her cruelly, but she only sighed and raised her hips to take it.

‘You’ve been very naughty,’ he growled at her. ‘You don’t deserve to get fucked hard until you learn to control yourself, and you’re very far from achieving that.’ He wrapped a hand in her hair, hauling her upwards, a springy armful with her neck twisted to receive a rough kiss, not that she’d earned it. Her wicked tongue slipped into his mouth and took him, her blue eyes watering and dilated to twilight. He allowed her one minute, scratching her face with the depth of his response, then broke away. He would give her some of the fantasy at least, how far he would take it depended on her.

‘Behave yourself tonight, do as you’re fucking told and hold it in until I say, then I may use something else other than your mouth,’ he whispered harshly, a hiss of air into her swollen lips. ‘Take off that dress and that bra, and put your hands behind your back with your arse in the air.’

When he released her, he noted the spark of triumph before she veiled her eyes and obeyed, visibly shaking as she pulled the zip on her decorous date dress and flicked the catch on her bra, her breasts warm and weighty as he reached to pinch her nipples, already rigid and as dusky pink as her cunt. Near naked, sinuous curves and black satin belt framing her abused buttocks, she knelt again before him in an arch, her wrists offered up to receive the soft leather cuffs, buckled tightly. Then the ankle cuffs, a long strap between them so the victim’s legs were held open, displaying her inviting holes.

His clothes felt too restrictive, especially his trousers, but he only removed his shoes and socks and shed his shirt. If he went any further he would be plunging into her core, he was too on edge already to resist the lure of her pliant image, the scent of her need filling his nose. He had to blink several times to get a grip on himself before touching her, tracing the seam of her cunt from clit to arse, opening her fully and collecting wetness. He ignored where she wanted him and slipped a finger between the crevice of her buttocks, circling the hole he longed to explore then probing carefully.

She froze, a breathy sob from beneath her mess of bright hair as he slid it in fully, so tight he couldn’t imagine fucking her there, not just yet. She would need to be eased into it, and he would start tonight. ‘I have neglected this part of your training,’ he told her, closing his eyes to deaden the effect of her bound and perfectly still and receptive, the sound of her ragged breathing. ‘Since you played with yourself and disobeyed me…you need to be broken in a bit.’

She hissed, her trapped hands flexing, but instead of shrinking beneath him she held firm, letting him thrust the digit inside her to open her up, and when his thumb checked on her he found her wetter still. When he added a second finger she moaned like a good little whore, a thread of pain in the long, wanton expiration. His instincts were correct, she would give him all of her and lap it up, pleasure and pain. The endless possibilities consumed him, a ringing in his ears, a heaviness in his loins. She would be the death of him. She would always hold the key.


	7. Act II Part 3

_A/N: Thanks for the enthusiasm (and frustration) for the last chapter, this wouldn’t get out of my head and was proving a damn distraction so here is some more of the night in Jon’s flat, slightly longer than usual for pleasant reasons. Not for the easily scandalised, be warned. The rest of you filthy wenches, please enjoy._

_Lovely smutty board by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

There was something wilful inside her that liked to fight against what she had become, and there was piquant satisfaction to be had in winding Jon Snow up. To see his straight black brows crease, his jaw tense, his low, lulling voice drop two octaves and spill out filthy words that clearly made him both uncomfortable and excited. But defiance in finding her pleasure despite his orders did little to take the edge off now, her hands, his hands, his sweet mouth wasn’t enough.

Her body was empty and horribly achy, a bound vessel kneeling before him desperate to be filled, so she would try. She would empty her _mind_ and endure it, fight the weakness in her body until he gave her what she craved. She wanted his smoky, sullen eyes on her when it happened, not like this. She wanted to look inside him and know him as he surrendered, and to earn it she would be the perfect sub, obedient and anguished.

Apart from some cliché messing around with silk scarves with an old lover with a limp dick and desultory interest in indulging her, she had never been restrained. The cuffs holding her arms at an uncomfortable angle behind her back, the ankle restraints holding her legs apart so everything was on show, at the complete mercy of her man, this beautiful man who was as yet a stranger. The word was on her tongue, the safe word she had invented, half of her wanted to gasp it and end this vulnerability, the other half wanted to swallow it and grit her teeth.

‘I will be a good whore, and do as I am told,’ she said in a subdued voice, testing her bonds and shifting to get more comfortable, flat on her face with the duvet and her falling hair her only view of proceedings. She could imagine what she looked like to him, the ultimate fantasy, and she could scent his arousal, an enticing musky warmth, the vibration in the air from his firing nerves, the glottal hitch of his breath.

When she felt his hand squeeze one inflamed buttock she flinched, wondering if she was to receive more discipline first. She loved it when he beat her, the pain transferring to a glow in her loins that was unique and thrilling, too thrilling. And his fingers in her arse, probing carefully, she was shocked at how good it felt, wanting him to do it again, take it much further. God she was a _bad_ girl, a _dirty_ , _filthy_ girl. She was disappearing into that void, her mind an empty bubble, if she could stay there, she would win.

‘You look so pretty when you’re on your knees, telling me lies,’ he rumbled at her, and she snorted back a laugh which would have spoiled the mood if it got started. She sensed a smile behind her, a quirk of ripe lips, a flash of teeth. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him smile before they reached their understanding, she saw it more often now, and it was always pleasantly startling.

There were stealthy sounds that brought her attention back, a sucked in breath, a rustle in a bedside drawer, the shifting of the covers as an item was retrieved. She tensed up, guessing what it was, knowing it was going to hurt, but first there was cool liquid dripping from a bottle down the cleft of her buttocks, the delicate scent of coconut oil. She murmured in pleasure as she felt his hand on her again, smoothing it over both holes, then whimpered as the crease between her inner and outer lips was traced, up and down, slippery and teasing, his thumb finding her swollen clit and toying with it.

She felt her need ratcheting higher, her mouth sealing to cut her protesting noise, hoping for the pain to come to level her out. She was so wet she could feel the shameful stickiness on her thighs, so jumpy it was impossible to hide her distress. She willed it away by pretending she couldn’t feel a thing, focusing on the void in her head, but he fondled her like he wanted her to fail, dipped his head to swipe his tongue up the middle of her, the scratch of whiskers as deliberate as his exploration.

She took a mouthful of duvet to muffle her cry, but it was useless. He always ate her like he was famished and she was a full meal, with no restraint at all, using his hands to hold her cunt open, his lips and teeth and beard employed along with his very skilled tongue, her only source of release except for the odd time he brought her to climax with three or four fingers inside her.

Play dead, be still, be stone…she had to escape, crawling away clumsily across the bed until he caught her and pinned her down, only pausing to tut at her and smack her across one cheek sharply before he dipped his head and resumed her discipline. At her mewling protests, fingertips slotted between her cheeks and penetrated her arse, and the flaming heat in her tortured loins increased, echoed by the thrumming blood in her head.

‘Mmm, you like that don’t you, you dirty slut,’ he whispered urgently. She didn’t reply, too busy scrabbling for calm while she could, but he belted her hard with the crop she had chosen for herself, the sting dragging out a yelp. The fingers were gone as well as his clever, cruel mouth, but she braced herself, knowing what was coming as she had suggested it. Use of her arse was a source of fascination for them both, and this was training.

‘Y…yes, I do like it…’ she confessed through gritted teeth. ‘More…give me more. Let me show you how good I am.’

There was triumph to be savoured at his muttered curse, the fidgeting behind her. She could see him behind her lids, tearing at his hair and flexing his hands into fists, blinking to clear red mist from his brain. She felt the tapered end slotted against her hole, pressing and retreating, and she let him hear her cry of impatience, turning to a wild keen of pain as she felt herself violated, stretched and held open. It was the smaller plug, but it still hurt, it was still a struggle to adjust to the sensation.

He hushed her, gentling her with strokes across her quivering back, then squeezing a hand in his. ‘Ssh, you’re alright…just relax…’ She breathed through it, groaning as his fingers slipped through her open folds, tweaking first her clit, then tugging on the plug to make her experience it again. ‘Jesus, you’re so fucking wet…’ She was, what he had just done to her had made her drip nectar, his touch even harder to bear. She wasn’t far off begging for him to leave her be or take her, she was biting her lips raw to hold it back.

She concentrated on getting air in and out of her nose as she felt herself gripped and suckled and poked yet again, so horribly good her fingers and toes curled, teeth catching her clit breaking her stubborn silence. At her desperate growl he backed off, hooking a hand in the cuffs to haul her upright. She was clumsy and leaden, but she struggled to assist him in turning her around, immediately clamping her thighs together to dull the ache. Her hair was all over her face, but her lover smoothed away the tendrils tenderly. Crouched precariously on the edge of the bed, she looked up stonily, her heart leaping. He was stark naked and beautiful as sin, spare and elegant and hard all over, so pale and unyielding it was like he was sculpted from marble, spidery black lashes doing little to hide his dreamy, vacant expression.

A fingertip traced her lips. ‘Open for me.’

She had no means of controlling the pace and depth of his cock in her mouth with her hands behind her back, but she had a task to focus on now and she would please him, sensing the cracks in his guarded defences. He was fully bare to her and his curls wild and tangled, so very roused his lips were full and red, his cock in a similar state, rigid and thick as it slid home, puffing her cheeks and pulling at her jaw.

He was gentle with her when she had expected to have her mouth plundered, continuing to caress her cheek, brows creased in abstraction as he fed her in careful lunges, and she got her vengeance, using her teeth and tongue and suction around the head to make him groan in that throaty way that was felt in her bones, her hair twisted in his fist.

It was suddenly released, making her wobble on her knees so he caught her shoulder to balance her, and she continued to swallow him even as his hand travelled down her back. The clink of a buckle and one wrist was loose, her arms falling out of their tense position and making her sit back on her haunches, a trail of spit between his cock and her lips which he wiped away with his thumb. ‘Messy whore,’ he grunted. ‘Lie down and put your hands above your head.’

The bars of the headboard were cold against her arms, trapped again she relaxed against the pillows, but not before she rubbed her face against the creamy expanse of his chest as he hovered over her, sinking her teeth into a nipple cheekily. Having him visible and close was a sensory experience that had her fingers twitching to touch and mark, and her boldness earned her a kiss, his lips and beard damp with her mess, tasting of salt and musk and coconut.

She was acutely aware of the plug inside her arse, not uncomfortable anymore but strangely pleasant, but when he sat back and rummaged to pick up the dildo she couldn’t help the scowl that flickered across her face, the thwarted noise that huffed from her abruptly when the item was pressed against her spread folds. Brows raised in warning at her reaction. ‘You don’t want this?’ he purred at her. The drag of the bulbous tip against her flesh was enough to make her jump like a startled cat.

‘I will take what you give me,’ she said meekly, though she wanted to snap and snarl. She glimpsed it between the cage of his corded thighs, still gleaming from the warmth of her mouth, pointing straight from the trimmed black curls of his groin. It had been weeks, and she still hadn’t been taken the way she wanted. She had the urge to hit him, whack her hand sharply against that peach of an arse and see how he liked it, but she couldn’t even kick him, all she could do was supress everything boiling inside her.

The toy pressed and retreated, not quite breaching her, but switched on to a low hum that made her squirm, the sight of him using his free hand to stroke himself not helping. She couldn’t resist watching, torturing herself with the arresting sight, both very pretty and very male, with a self-control that was maddening. She had never wanted anything more than she wanted him inside her.

She said nothing, merely spoke with the crazed sounds she made, not trying to hide her distress but writhing and mewling and fighting against her bonds. God, she couldn’t hold it, she was going to come, she was so frustrated tears were prickling. She shunted backwards against the pillows to get away, her eyes screwed shut to hold them back, so she didn’t see him until he was right up in her face, no toy, no careful distance, just cool skin sliding across hers, the heft of his cock against her burning loins not a tease, but a promise.

When she cracked her lids she found him studying her, eyes black and purely savage. A bite on her throat to mark her and her legs were scooped up, bending her double. It happened so fast she reeled from the abrupt rending of her flesh, every single inch of his length forced past her walls and buried to the hilt. She was so tight, so full, so overwhelmed she screamed like a ravaged novice, half in triumph, half in agony. She was silenced by his mouth crashing down on hers, careful twisting movements to loosen her cunt, her arms gripped hard enough to bruise, ink and silver hair mingled.  

It came upon her like a thunderstorm breaking, her walls clamping down on his perfect cock, violent spasms and ripples, the current of release rocketing through her veins and squeezing tears from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…’ she sobbed but he only crooned at her, a ball of limbs beneath his weight, a dozen kisses on her wet face as he bent to soothe, still moving in slow circles, drawing her orgasm out like an infinite rope.

Not a rebuke, not a label, but her name wrenched out of him in a low groan of surrender. ‘Dany.’


	8. Act II Part 4

_A/N: Thank you kink appreciators for enjoying the last chapter, I thought I’d finish off this scene so I can concentrate on my main fic, which is making me feel guilty and whiny and I really need to finish. This will sit here on hiatus for a bit, shaming me with its extreme smuttiness (but not really as I have no shame). Enjoy, here’s post coital Professor Bean._

_PS this is fiction and not real life, always use a condom with your new lover people._

He had done what a man was wont to do after having the best orgasm of his life, he dozed off, leaden and replete, but not before he had released his lover from her restraints, leaving Dany free to curl up beside him, or wander about his flat and poke into his things, have a shower, drink his wine. He didn’t care what she got up to, as far as he was concerned everything he had was hers. He didn’t want to hide from her anymore, the grumpy loner that he was, and the pieces of his life that were scattered around for her to examine.

As he slipped down into a tunnel of darkness, an idle thought flashed through his mind, that he was the one that was utterly fucked, not she. So besotted he would happily crawl across broken glass on a dirty pavement to get another taste of her. So relaxed the noisy fuckers in the flat below could start up with their terrible music and drunken quarrelling and he wouldn’t stir his lazy bones. Exquisite in her submission, with rebellion bubbling beneath her soft surface, small and vulnerable but with a will of iron and a quicksilver brain he struggled to keep up with.

When he awoke, he was lying on his back, sprawled out in the middle of the disarrayed bed, a warm weight on his midriff that filled his nose with the scent of his expensive shower gel and a lingering hint of sex. Wet hair dragged across his skin in cold tendrils, and he grumbled and opened his eyes to an impish goddess perched above him, wide mouth curled, scrubbed free of make-up, with blue-green eyes that sparkled like sunlight on a tarn on the moors of his old home.

He didn’t say anything, just let her do as she willed, her delicate hands mapping him curiously, the shape of his exposed throat, then his nose, smoothing over his brows, his hair carded and tugged through her fingers as she sighed happily. He’d barely let her touch him before so he understood the urge, though it made him mildly uncomfortable to be closely scrutinised. Despite the startled then thirsty glances of women as he passed by on the street, the longing mooning stares of his female, and some of the male students, he didn’t think he was much of a fine male specimen.

When her palms dragged lower, down his chest and belly, his sleepy cock remembered the events of earlier in the evening and stirred, thickening when her firm bottom settled across it. He loved her breasts, round and high and tipped with perky nipples that made his mouth water, but when he rose to take one to taste she pushed him back down, her long lashes not quite hiding her stubborn look. ‘I’m the boss around here,’ he said, his voice scratchy and uneven. Her hands were now on his hipbones as she shunted south, tracing the line of muscle, ticklish and possessive.

‘That you are Professor Snow,’ she said agreeably. ‘But I will still get my way for now. Turn over.’

He grumbled a bit, but obliged, hauling himself over on his front so she could resume her attentions, exploring the shape of him as he had explored the shape of her, the lines of his shoulders, a nip of teeth on his throat and a warm breath in his ear, the dip of his spine firmly followed with her thumb. He spent a lot of time in the gym or running for miles, working out the frustrations of real life, not really thinking of the results and how they might be appreciated by an attentive lover.

Her touch, so careful and light, not the bruising, pinching grasp of dominance, was exciting him, a thread of guilt haunting his arousal for the way he treated her, wanting to leave marks on her perfect skin to show her she was his property, but then her hand was brought down hard on his arse and he yelped, snapping him out of it. Her giggle was infectious, he couldn’t help chuckling into the pillow beneath his face despite the burn of the spank. She gave him another sharp swat, surprisingly vicious, and then sat back on his thighs, still giggling.

‘I needed to get that out of my system. Carry on then, bad man,’ she said cheekily. He snorted and turned around again, nearly jostling her off in his hurry to get to her, to drag her down and kiss her, take big handfuls of her flesh and bring her flush with where he needed her.

‘Mmm, I don’t think so love,’ he murmured into her after the languid kiss petered out, her tongue a wicked tease against the roof of his mouth. ‘I think I’m going to lie back and let you do all the work. You’ve worn me out proper.’

‘Lazy git,’ she shot back, snapping her teeth into his lower lip, her blue eyes an inch from his, growing darker as they dilated. ‘Lucky I like you a lot, especially your lovely cock, which you denied me for so very long.’

‘You’re awfully bloody cheeky for a sub,’ he muttered, shooting her a dark look. ‘It’s almost like you want to be punished.’

She smirked secretively at this, scooting backwards so she was poised over his groin. She was slippery with wetness now, her own juices and his seed mingling, coating his cock in preparation. Though she had showered, his mess was still inside her, a bland scent that was familiar. That she had left it there thrilled him, he wanted to keep her here all weekend and fill her many times, until creamy white decorated her thighs and the small purse of her bare cunt. He was a fucking animal, marking his territory, his nails clawed at her arse and she hissed, still sore from her beating. ‘Turn around,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Turn around and take my cock, all of it, and do it slowly.’

A blissful view, the round globes of her arse with their fading welts, the deep pink of her cunt stretched around him, a tight, velvety sheath swallowing him down, her slight body quivering, a cry wrenched from her throat as she squatted and obediently took him all. He took her hips to guide her movements, groaning at each pull on his length, holding her and rocking her at her very limit. He spread her buttocks wider so he could watch himself disappear, use his thumb to toy with her other hole, still red and inflamed from the plug that had held her open. He could recall it, the drag of the implement against his cock as he pounded into her folded over body.

He hadn’t lasted more than a minute after she came for him, this time it would be longer, he would see her right and fuck her all night until she was the one to sleep like the dead. She could come as many times as she wanted, and he would drag it out of her, every crazed release, relishing every pulse and flutter of her cunt. He reached for the words, the filthy words that drove her higher as her cries increased in urgency. ‘Sweet whore, good whore, take my cock, that’s it…take me deep…’

He felt his hot face flame as he spoke them, but was rewarded with a wail, her damp silver hair caught in his fist to make her arch, the head of his cock pressed against her womb. He let the animal loose, rising up and pushing her beneath him in a crouch, not losing his place inside her as he lifted her arse and began pounding with a violence that he knew she would savour. She was flattened against the covers, growling and sobbing and hidden by her beautiful hair, taking every bruising lunge with an inviting lift of her hips.

‘Fuck me, hurt me…so good…use me,’ she snarled at him, making him reel. He was lost, so lost, besotted and addicted. He didn’t want to do anything else but this, disappear inside her body, the body that belonged to him, a gift he had boldly asked for and had been freely given. In the morning he would try to be a gentleman and get to know her more as she utterly deserved, but for now there was this, winking out like a flame in a draught as he filled every corner of her.

She was his, and he would earn all of it, her mind as well as her body.


	9. Act III Part 1

_ A/N: Hello, kink appreciators, I thought I would get Act 3 started in this little slutty side piece of a fic so you can mull over the possibilities until I have time to update it. In this chapter, Dany accuses Jon of going soft on her, with interesting repercussions. Have a lovely time, I’m sure our heroine will. I’m not warning, because you know what to expect. _

 

It was Missy that set her off brooding as they picked over boxes of sushi under their favourite lunchtime tree, the boughs budding with pale green furled leaves, the ground still damp beneath them and an unpleasant chilly breeze coming off the river. Still too bloody cold for al fresco, but after a long winter she wanted spring, and she wanted a break from the stuffy confines of her office and the pile of marking lying there accusingly.

Her friend had a good store of gossip to share as they munched, but none was as interesting to Missy as her secretive friend’s love life, her nosey questions making her toss her head and light up a smoke to hide behind it. ‘So, Professor Snow huh?’ she said casually, her sassy American accent popping. ‘That dude has got a serious case of the heart eyes for you, even though you won’t tell me shit. Tell me, does he write you long, miserable poems and make love to you slowly and gently while reciting sonnets into your ear?’

She laughed at this and flicked the end of her cigarette before sucking the delicious cancer down into her lungs. ‘He’s a Climatologist, you giddy twat, not a English professor.’

Her friend rolled her lively amber eyes and waved away smoke wafting in her direction. ‘You know what I mean. He’s all cliche professor, scruffy and absent minded and earnest and sweet, he looks soooo boring to me. What’s the appeal, apart from being all pretty with those big puppy dog eyes and nice round booty?’

She gave a smirk and dropped her gaze evasively. ‘He’s not so sweet and awkward, when he’s minded to be,’ she said, but then her thoughts moved on from dodging her friend’s questions to events of the last two weeks. Jon seemed to have forgotten what it was all about to start with, she had been coddled and indulged and despoiled in various pleasant ways that were not about denial or discipline. She was aware she was new to all this, and unashamedly terrible at it, enjoying the battle of wills that led to Jon caving in and giving her what she wanted, but it was all becoming rather comfortable, too comfortable.

She missed being snapped out of her complacency, confronted with the darker parts of herself, and put into situations where she had little control beyond her hoarded safe word. It had all been hand holding, smug middle-class dates at wine bars, the park, the art house movie theatre, and exciting and satisfying fucking, but she hadn’t been broken. And she wanted to be broken, in that hidden part of herself, she wanted to be curbed and chastised, desperate and grateful for any crumbs of pleasure thrown her way.

She had appreciated the interlude, as without the structure of dominant and submissive she had gotten to know him a little better. He was a moody sod that could chew her ear off about his research and rather crackpot theories, but lovely inside as well as out, treating her with care and respect that was in delightful contrast to how he had treated her in bed, or across his desk. For two weeks he denied her nothing, fucking her and eating her out like her cunt was his greatest obsession, a few swats on her arse, frequent use of the smaller anal plug to stretch her, and forceful, smooth thrusts from various positions that had her howling and coming as many times as she pleased.

She had forgotten what it was like to be kept on the edge, craving the next step in her initiation. He had become her lover and not her master, and it wasn’t enough for her. She challenged him that very night of her girl talk session, as she was coming down from another spectacular orgasm wrapped in his arms, her hair a silvery cloud around their nuzzling faces. ‘You’ve gone all soft on me, Jon Snow,’ she whispered into his kissable lips. ‘I miss you being a bossy bastard. I’m a terrible sub, and being snuggled by you is not teaching me a lesson.’

She was worried he’d taken offense when he pulled back from her, but his jet eyes only looked thoughtful, and she had gone to sleep in his sumptuous bed fairly confident he was mulling over the possibilities and she would be hearing from him in some startling way in the near future. However days went by with no contact other than searing glances passing in the hallway or in the grounds, as if she was a stranger he fancied the look of and nothing more. She began to grow huffy and uncertain, fretting over whether he had cooled off and resenting it massively.

At first she sent him cheerful, breezy messages and texts to show him she still cared for him, but at the resulting silence she decided to maintain her dignity. Hearing through the faculty gossip mill that funding for a research project of his had been withdrawn, she wondered whether he was in a mood over that as well. Her own project funding had been renewed, and there had always been some rivalry between them before their understanding was reached. Well sod it, she wasn’t going to pine, and he wasn’t the kind of guy to ghost, she had to remember that. She knew him, well she thought she did.

‘Meet me in your office at six, be prepared for me. Office better have a lock.’

The text chimed as she was fronting a lab of students puzzling over rock samples and pestering her with dopey questions every five minutes, some of the male students ogling her openly in her short tartan skirt so she felt like thumping them. She took out her phone, the message giving her a jolt, cheeks flushing hot as she wondered how she was to prepare herself while at work. She was tempted to fire a message back saying she was too busy, but she was dying to see him alone, and too curious about what he had planned to play games. 

Six o’clock came around, the building emptying apart from the cleaners, and she was both nervy and tired, boots off, panties off, her hair loose down her back as he liked so he could yank it, the buttons of her cardigan undone to reveal her bra, already slick between her legs. Like a silly tart she had run to the High Street at lunchtime and bought a wine red garter belt and stockings to replace her sensible tights, eager to please as she suspected and hoped he was going to be hard on her. 

She didn’t know what she would do if one of the staff or students walked in right now unexpectedly for she was presentable only for him, the schoolgirl vibe of her outfit mildly annoying and yet pleasantly sluttish. She hated being leered at by everyone other than him, and if she asked herself why there was no sane answer. Eventually after much pacing and fiddling there was a soft knock, and Jon slipped through, not speaking, merely turning the lock, dropping his coat and satchel on the floor. When he looked up he found her hovering behind her desk, admiring him in his tight black sweater and jeans, his black curls at their most subdued, his wire rimmed glasses magnifying his deep brown eyes, which flared slightly. 

‘You know what to do. Assume the position.’ 

No kiss, no cuddle, no enquiry about her day, he was closed down, radiating a dark energy that she felt prickle over her skin. She didn’t fuss, she bent over the cleared expanse of her desk, her hands gripping the edge, wondering how he was going to keep her quiet, but then her head was in his strong hands, a scarf pressed against her mouth. ‘Bite down on this, and keep quiet, or everyone will hear and know it’s you.’

The knot he tied tangled in her hair, pulling it at the roots, the scratchy wool filling her mouth, only air getting in through her nose. She had tensed, but she obediently arched her back so her arse was presented properly, her feet leaving the floor. A cold hand drew up her pleated skirt, an audible grunt of satisfaction at finding her bare and framed in wine silk. ‘Pretty girl, pretty white arse,’ he murmured at her. ‘Pity I’m going to spank it raw.’ 

The sound of it would likely travel into the hallway, baffling any passing cleaners, but at least he’d thought to muffle her screams. She felt his bristly lips press against each cheek, making her snort through her gag, appreciating the flash of sweetness, for she knew she was in big trouble. Rustling, stealthy sounds, the click of a bottle opening, then a stream of oil down her cleft, rough padded fingers rubbing it in around her back entrance. Her clit throbbed, wanting him to find it and tease it sweetly, but he avoided it, only pushing the lubricant briefly in her cunt, enough to make her whine. 

‘You are to be used today, and are not allowed to come,’ he said throatily. ‘Beaten and used like the slut you are, and I will send you home wet and sore to think about how you’ve been very bad and how best to please me in future.’ 

She hissed through her nose, gave a protesting noise that was inaudible, every muscle in her body contracting to shrink away. He would tell her she was forbidden to touch herself when alone of course. She could lie about it, but he would know, for he knew all her defiant tricks by now. And no matter how harsh he was with her tonight, it would still be a struggle not to release. Her nipples were pricked, the pit of her belly was awash in heat, the fear lodged in her throat as she felt the pointed end of the bigger plug pressing into her arse only adding to her excitement. 

The implement of discipline was well greased, but still she wailed in agony as it was slowly fitted, pulling the ring of muscle apart like it was tearing. The wild sound was caught in the gag, already damp with her drool. God it was sore, so sore, but there was pleasure to be found in it, a twisted, sick pleasure as she felt the width and weight of it holding her obscenely open. 

‘This will be the last time I am using your cunt until you learn to behave yourself,’ the glottal, menacing voice said, adjusting the plug so she whimpered sharply. ‘Enjoy it as much as you can, my girl. By the end of this week you will beg me to take this tight virgin arse... as that is the only way you’re permitted to come.’


	10. Act III Part 2

_ _

 

_ A/N: Oh hey there, everyone is probably in the mood for canon smut at the moment, but I have an enticing new moodboard by  _ **_Justwanderingneverlost_ ** _ and some ideas I can turn into Modern AU kinky fun. We open with a scene of cosy couch domesticity due to me being fucking annoyed by an anon on Dumblr who was implying Jon was getting a chubby Dad bod. I love the dichotomy of lazy man supplying delicious thrills, because that’s a good relationship in my book.  _

_ Unlike Chapters 1 to 8 this act of the fic is split over 4 nights due to Dany asking Ole Heart Eyes to fuck her up. Dedicated to  _ **_Ashleyfanfic_ ** _ because she just got a job, helped me with some choice fuck me up ideas, and is generally a wonderful person.  _

 

The television droned ponderously, the blue-white light flickering in the gloom, the raw spring night banished by the drawn curtains and the glow of the radiators heating the air. A single lamp lit up the corner of the couch where his lover was perched, separated from his slumped form by an expanse of scuffed, cracked leather. She had huffed at him when he switched over to the Discovery Channel and disappeared to have a bath in his old fashioned claw foot tub, away for nearly an hour while he watched some fake science bullshit that was pleasantly mindless. 

Dany had finally emerged swathed in his tatty old velour robe from head to toe, her fascinating hair piled on top of her head in a clip, and took out a stack of papers from her laptop bag, tucking her dainty bare feet under her and settling down to do marking. It was boring and peaceful, a typical boyfriend-girlfriend scene, no sign of the dark current of denial and desire that flowed between them and defined them. She was his woman he took out on decorous dates, who grumbled at him for leaving a mess everywhere and drinking too many beers, fussed over him when he was down or tired, but also his pet, his whore. 

He didn’t know which half of it made him the most content, the mundane or the decadent. 

Despite the restful evening in, the frustration bubbled under his skin, and when he closed his tired eyes he was assaulted by a stream of images; black leather against creamy flesh, the red blush on her raised buttocks, her on her knees with her wide mouth stretched around his girth, his seed decorating her bare breasts like a string of pearls. His groin ached when he remembered being locked inside her, too long ago. He had fucked her across her desk with no thought for her pleasure just as she had asked, but she had come anyway, one last explosion that rippled around him, the memory a jolt of tactile energy. 

She looked very demure, but he knew she was hiding something, beneath that robe and in her thoughts. Something she was hoping to be punished for. He felt a heaviness settle in the pit of his stomach, his fingers formed into claws, mind torn between affection and irritation. He had set the terms, and she had reminded him of them sharply, but God he missed just giving in and fucking her blind, watching her blue-green eyes roll back into her head, hearing her cry and scream like a banshee. It was unraveling him slowly, every episode where he tormented her and then withheld her release, and finding satisfaction in her mouth was never enough. 

She was tougher than him it seemed, as since that session in her office she had not broken once, unless she was sneakily relieving herself at home. He had ordered her not to, but it hadn’t stopped her before, and she endured his discipline, the toying with her flesh to the threshold with perfect obedience, walking away on wobbly legs with her juices gleaming on her thighs as if it was nothing to her, a serene expression on her flushed face. He hadn’t expected it to last this long, or for his mind to walk such twisted paths to make her break and beg for what he craved. 

He had spent a lot of time stretching that part of her, getting her used to being invaded and deriving pleasure from it as well as discomfort, but he knew she would be tight, so very tight his cock was swelling in his sweatpants at the prospect. The cutesy, casual affection she showed him always made him feel guilty for wanting to overwhelm her and hurt her, though she had acquiesced to it. It made him feel restless now, his drowsy mood evaporating, need condensing on his tongue like the salt-sweet taste of her neglected cunt. 

When he flicked his eyes away from the telly to drink her in again he found her watching him, her big blue orbs expectant. Though they were still getting to know each other beyond the language of their bodies, she was very attuned to his moods, and he to hers. Her legs shifted beneath his robe, and she poked him in the belly with her toes, painted tart’s red. ‘Jon Snow, the only man on earth to look sexy in old sweatpants,’ she said, a proprietorial smirk on her lips. He snatched her pretty foot and laid a kiss there, making her jerk to try and free herself, she was very ticklish. 

He slid a thumb along her instep, and she convulsed and cursed. ‘I want to know what you’ve got hiding under my old robe,’ he rumbled. ‘And what you were up to in the bath for so long.’

‘Nothing and nothing,’ she said primly, withdrawing her foot from his grasp. ‘I’ve been very good, sir, I swear to you.’

At the use of the word ‘sir’, he felt a surge in his groin. She usually hated labels, aside from the two she had permitted him to use in play. She loved those, being called a slut and a whore, though she commanded nothing but respect from everyone in the real world, including him. It was a game, a consuming game he was happy to immerse himself in, despite the nice guy part of him giving him the occasional attack of the guilts. ‘I think you’re lying,’ he growled at her. ‘I think you’re holding yourself together so well because you’re a disobedient little slut.’ At her telling intake of breath, he fought a smug smile. ‘Now take that robe off and show me what you’re hiding, and confess. If you confess, I won’t go hard on you tonight.’

She stared at him warily for a long moment, then she dumped her papers on the floor, her small hands going to the knot at her waist. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said meekly, her gaze dropping. The robe parted, revealing naked skin, rosy and flushed from the bath, a neatly waxed mound and a delicate metal chain between her breasts, two clamps on her nipples holding them rigid and swollen. At the sight of the new toy, he winced, thinking of the pain it must be causing her but blackly excited. 

She unfolded herself slowly and stood before him, turning before his hand could catch the chain and draw her in. Between her high, round buttocks, he glimpsed the end of the plug in her arse. She had been sitting there innocent and studious, all the while prepared for him. It was his turn to gasp for air and blink. His clothes felt as tight as his chest. His hand darted out, cracking her on her left cheek viciously. ‘Plugging you is my job,’ he hissed at her. ‘Tell me what you got up to when you did this.’ 

Unable to stay distant, he brought her down onto his lap, sliding a palm up her soft belly and tangling it in the chain, tugging on her clamped nipples as he waited. She whimpered and arched before she began to confess with his teeth sunk into her smooth throat. He was an atheist, but he prayed to God to help him get through this night without snapping and burying himself in her cunt, grinding against her womb with that fucking plug squeezing her even closer around him. 

‘I’m sorry,’ she whined. ‘But I’ve been going out of my mind. I’ve been so good for so long and not touched myself, but tonight in the bath I made myself come to take the edge off. I punished myself by bending over and inserting the plug, hoping to please you.’ He listened intently, always enjoying the glimpses of her fantasy world she revealed to him, one hand pulling on the chain, the other delving between her thighs to find her welling and soft, smoothing between her lower lips to part them. ‘I thought of you inside me, not in my cunt because I know that’s off limits. I thought of you taking my arse while I was tied up and couldn’t escape.’

‘And are you ready for that now?’ he whispered in her small shell of an ear, her silvery hair tickling his face, smelling of oranges and spice. He was now painfully hard beneath the soft weight of her bottom, his cock nudging her eagerly. ‘Are you ready to beg for it?’ He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to yield her unused arse yet, there was deep satisfaction in anticipation, despite what his demanding dick was telling him.

‘No, I am not,’ she groaned, lifting her hips to increase the friction of his hand on her. ‘I’m not broken yet, so  _ break me _ .’ 

His wits were scattered to the four corners of the room, his tongue thick and clumsy, it took him a minute before he could decide on his next move, all the while fondling her like the plaything she was. ‘I don’t think a spanking is going to cut it this time,’ he husked, the damp patch on his sweats causing his trapped cock to slide against her bottom closely. ‘You’re so fucking naughty I think you deserve that arse belted so hard you can’t sit down.’ 

Reluctantly he let go of her, pushing her to her feet, she was awkward and shrinking, suitably chastened at least in aspect. He followed, his eyes going to the leather belt hanging off the dresser mirror, catching his reflection startlingly. He looked disheveled already, his curls a cloud around his face, his expression black and vacant, a bloody lucky, lecherous sod with free reign over the tiny, pretty thing with her head bowed submissively, waiting for orders, her complex mind ticking away beneath her crown of white gold hair. 

‘Get on the bed on your hands and knees, and present yourself properly. Ten strokes, and I want you to count every one of them for me.’ 

There was no reluctance, feigned or otherwise, even though it was going to sting like hell and mark her up good, leave vivid welts on her firm flesh. He marveled at her toughness as he watched her assume the position, face buried in his duvet, her arms behind her back. He circled the bed, belt in his hands, doing a mental inventory of the items in the bedside drawer. He wouldn’t cuff her, he would bind her, wrap the silk rope around her frail wrists and ankles, get her used to being helpless and trussed, more confronting than the soft restraints he had been using. 

She would look exquisite, she would tempt him sorely, he would have to keep his distance or he would falter. The scent of her was permeating the air, arousal tinged with a little fear, she would feel like fire made flesh under his hands, springy and soft but resilient, the lost and wanton noises she would make sawing away at his nerves. Since she had cheated, she would lie there and take everything he gave and hold herself back, and when he had done, filling her throat with his come or spilling it on her skin, she would rest in a pillow of pleasant dreams while he lay awake beside her wanting more, wanting all of her.


	11. Act III Part 3

_ A/N: Oh hey, this is the only fic I have energy for at the moment, but at least it’s some offering to the Smut Gods for your delectation. This is more teasing really, but I promise the payoff will be well worth it. Polite grumbling will ensure the climax comes soon, thanks for reading kink appreciators. _

_ Oh and happy birthday, thewolvenstorm xxx _

 

She rarely let anyone, friends or lovers, enter her personal space. As soon as she earned enough money to rent the meanest bedsit so she could create a private haven, she lived alone. She wasn’t one for analysing her own behaviour too deeply, she preferred action and the detached abstraction of her scientific work, moving forwards rather than looking backwards, but if she had the inclination to talk to a shrink, her childhood would be the cause. A family of wealth and privilege, deeply unhappy and quarrelsome due to the domineering, perpetually mad presence of her father. Her tragic, timid mother, one fabled brother dead before she was born, the other a complete shit. 

She had got out as fast as she could, with only her brains to earn a living, and multiple quirks swarming in her personality, the least harmless being the screen she built around herself, deceptively outgoing and fiesty and quick witted, but within those walls a constructed calm prevailed. She would sit in her pretty flat and enjoy the silence and solitude, devouring both weighty and trashy books and films, slobbing in old pyjamas with ratty hair. She didn’t need to prove anything to anyone in that place, be attractive and engaging and tough, so inviting Jon Snow into her private space was a big step, particularly considering what he likely had in mind for her tonight.

The tension in her limbs was like steel cables being stretched in an infernal machine, her skin felt swollen and hypersensitive, even the lightest of clothing making her chafe and ache. She was prone to flinching when anyone came too near, and so distracted the practical, everyday world was a vague murmur and hiss around her. It had been a long, torturous week, and she hadn’t cheated. Not once. If she was talking to that imaginary shrink again, she would confirm that she was deliberately shattering that calm she had maintained for so long, letting the man who was both dear and disturbing deconstruct her and remake her. To what, she didn’t know, but she did know that she craved him like a plant shut up in a cellar craved light and air. She had no pretty words for it, it was more primal than that, feral and filthy and atavistic. 

He prowled the single large room like a cautious black cat, the subdued clothes that hugged his lithe, well muscled figure, the raven hair and spiderweb-pale skin beautifully framed by her jewel box of a studio, bright yellow walls and red couch and paintings and swatches of exotic fabrics trailing, carefully chosen ornaments she had picked up on her travels in the east, so different to his spartan flat with its black iron bed and sagging old Chesterfield couch. 

She was perched on an antique wingback chair she’d had upholstered in purple velvet, not in baggy pyjamas but dressed to please in a filmy chemise that showed glimpses of her bare beneath. Her wardrobe was full of such things now, slutty lingerie and skimpy outfits that were cliche but pleasing to wear only for Jon. Whatever lingering inhibitions she had about her body, arse too plump, thighs too jiggly, were all gone. She had been so closely scrutinised, pawed and worshipped by him to worry. It was freeing, like many things about her chosen servitude. 

It wasn’t all rough, often he was sweet and gentle with her, mapping every part of her body with fingertips, the tip of his tongue, even his long eyelashes tickling her receptive skin, which was more of a torment to her self control than the crack of his hand or belt. She relished both sides of him, the silky caress with a bite behind it, the innate seriousness with the core of droll, dark humour. The way he appeared so impenetrable, yet boyishly vulnerable. She loved to wind him up, and she loved to drag out his fleeting smiles, but most of all she savoured how she was his to conquer, and all the while she was invading his careful defenses. 

She had been good, so very good, but she was on the ragged edge, and as she sat there and watched him she was already plotting how to yield to him what he wanted, how best to give herself over so he would never forget it, but it wouldn’t be tonight. She was still testing herself and him, the steel cable drawn tighter and tighter by their mutual pull. Did she love him? She wasn’t sure, there was too much she didn’t know, but she knew she was  _ infatuated _ , that she wanted to behave so she would have the right to crawl all over him and inside him, a pet rewarded with all the treats.

They had met for lunch and talked and nuzzled and laughed like a normal couple, so there were no preliminaries to this visit. His boots and coat were off, his satchel dropped by the bed. He drew closer in and circled her chair, his face intent, chestnut brown eyes darkening to twilight, his hands fluttering and clenching as if she made him nervous. ‘You’ve been a good girl, Dany,’ he purred at her. ‘Even when I’m not there to check on your progress, so I’m going to reward you.’ He stepped behind her, a hand carding through her loose hair, then delving to push a strap off her shoulder, letting a breast pop free to be weighed. His breath deepened, skittered against her throat, then his bristly lips. ‘Put your legs up and open for me.’ 

He moved quickly and gracefully, kneeling between her splayed thighs to inspect her, the fine furze of regrowth too short to wax not hiding how roused she was already, dusky and gleaming with a trail of juices. Her reward would be to be devoured without finding her release, and she whimpered as if in pain when his scuffed hands palmed her open, edged away to back against the embrace of the chair. Her head tilted, eyes focused on a crack in the ceiling, not on his head between her legs, not on the tongue which slithered through her petals to circle her clit. ‘No, please no…’ she whined. ‘I’m so on edge, I’m so empty…’

He sucked her into his mouth in a leisurely drag, slurping delicately at the mess, and she arched, her hands flailing with the urge to push him off her. ‘Mmm...you know what to do then,’ he rumbled into her cunt. ‘Ask me, beg me, give it up, give me permission to use your arse like the slut you are, I know you’re thinking about it right now.’ 

She hissed her denial between clenched teeth, twitched with every flick and probe of his tongue as if lost in a fit, the pleasure so strong it was acid coursing through her veins, that part of her brain that wanted to come firing up. She focused on that crack, detached herself from the sensations, griping and begging for him to stop, partially to please him, partially because she was going to fail if he didn’t. She needed to bring out his streak of viciousness, to invite restraint and pain in order to silence that urge. Her shaking hands pushed his head away, she heaved like she had run clear across the town as his eyes lifted to glare at her. ‘No more, I can’t take any more, please sir don’t let me fail.’

His beard was soaked with her, she wanted to bend down and lick his plump lips clean, but she needed him distant, her body an object to truss up, smack and pinch and invade, his release the endgame. She could tell by the taut muscles under his sweater and his dazed expression tinged with frustration that fucking her mouth until she gagged and her eyes streamed was no longer cutting it. ‘You are the most stubborn woman alive,’ he growled, jerking away and to his feet, looming over her. 

She felt a flash of guilt then, but she kept her face neutral and eyes lowered. A hand clamped on her arm and dragged her out of the chair, bending it behind her back to march her to the bed. She fell face down, glad she could no longer see his face, her arms bent at an uncomfortable angle in his grip as he shunted her up the covers. Her pretty bed, a private haven of girlish dreams both heated and mundane, now thoroughly invaded by his strong presence. She smiled against the beaded silk and rose to her knees obediently. 

‘Keep your hands behind your back,’ he grunted, then withdrew to rummage in his satchel. They kept her toys and restraints at his flat, but he had brought them along, knowing how it would go even as he hoped she was going to surrender. The black silk rope was looped around her offered wrists as he returned to straddle her, the long ends used to tie each ankle in a complicated bondage which had her both stretched and crabbed. He was getting very good at this, the rope not too tight but the position intimidating and restrictive. 

She was a victim, breathing deep for imperfect calm and hiding under her spill of hair, her thighs held open and a pillow propped beneath her belly so her holes were accessible. She could not escape what he had in mind unless she spoke the word, but she trusted him, she knew the discipline would please her as well as him. The emptiness of her body gnawed at her, she let her mind fall into a well of want, her arse clenched at nothing and her belly cramped as she imagined it, bent double with his cock buried there, wrenching her inviolate muscles with each thrust, his ecstatic moans at her tightness, her lusty cries of pain and bliss. 

She wanted him there now, she wanted him to tie her down to the bed and leave her there to be used again and again as he pleased all night, until his come dribbled from her bruised and sore entrance, until she was so weak from climax he would have to pick her up to carry her to the bath to clean her up. She wanted her lover to gorge himself on her submission until he was purring and sated, curled up her arms to be petted and stroked and mothered. It was her darkest, filthiest, most treasured fantasy, and he was the man to make it sweet reality, but not yet. 

She wanted to earn that fantasy the hard way, and its aftermath of triumph. He would hit her, taunt her, fuck her with her toy instead of his beautiful cock until she was a mess of tears and spit and noise, then she would open wide and swallow him whole. Then they would curl up together on the couch, drink wine and watch telly, jumpy and restless and preoccupied, their minds in the same place and yet far apart. 


	12. Act III Part 4

_ A/N: I was in the mood and feeling mildly guilty for the delayed gratification kick I was on, plus I have other fics to update, so here it is, the end of Act 3. A grumpy Professor Bean is alone in his office when his day is made, enjoy.  _

 

It wasn’t what he signed up for, endless marking of papers, three hour labs, lectures in stuffy old halls with tiered desks stretching up into the shadows where the students scrawled graffiti on the ancient wood, groped each other, played with their phones, did anything other than listen. He chose his career in the hope of saving the world, and here he was, playing nursemaid for dopey undergraduates, and mocked by everyone for his theories aside from his lady, who listened politely and tried to kiss away his scowls, his brilliant colleague who was climbing up the hierarchy to the very top. 

It wasn’t too late, he was only thirty. He could change careers, build houses for middle class wankers in the suburbs, dig holes in the road, become a mercenary in the Middle East, hit his father up for some of the family fortune to start again, ignoring the outraged bitching of his step mother, but then he would have failed. He hated to fail, but he felt like he was being sucked down into a swamp of failure these days, the only thing giving him strength the strange relationship that occupied his secret thoughts. He felt powerless, but for a few blissful hours every other night she gave him power. 

The pleasure of wielding that power, to have free reign over her body, to control her release, to mess with her mind a little, it was disturbing. A constant twinge of guilt nagged at him, inviting him to examine it closely and see the dark kernel within its heart, but then the soft side of them soothed that twinge. They were cute together from the outside looking in, and inside there was pure contentment when their sessions were over, a drowsy, witty girl in his arms, tactile and affectionate and so very interested in him. 

He had been in love once, he thought he knew what it was, but this was so different he wasn’t really sure. But he knew he needed her, that the thought of being without her was a howling void behind a locked door he didn’t want to open. Old Heart Eyes, she called him, so maybe he was in love and hadn’t admitted it to himself, too preoccupied with the sex and the frustration, the challenge wrapped in a delicate, enticing body that yielded to every whim, except the last taboo. God, she was so fucking  _ stubborn _ , her usual rebellion subdued to meet the terms they had set, but he was reaching the end of his rope now. He wanted to be buried inside her, he wanted her to shatter into glittering fragments and suck him down, down into her and disappear.

It had been an unusually sultry spring day, the air in his office was thick, dust motes dancing in the stream of yellow light through the mullioned windowpane. It was past six, the building was quiet aside from the rattling and gossiping of the cleaners, the grounds outside empty of people about their business, only a few lively drunks on their way to a college party. He thought longingly of dark ale in a beer garden by the river, but there was a mountain of marking on his desk, the build up to exams increasing his tedious workload while his research laid on a shelf neglected and unfunded. 

He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes to clear them, feeling sticky sweat glue his t shirt to his chest. His meandering thoughts drifted to a chilly moorland above his father’s manor, where there was always a bracing breeze to cool him down, heather to lie in and watch the clouds wheeling in the denim blue sky. He wanted to take Dany there, show him the land that was in his bones, and watch with silent amusement how she dealt with his prickly family. They wouldn’t know what hit them, this beautiful, rootless, fierce girl-woman who had claimed him. 

Dragging his mind back to the present, he picked up a red pen and the top paper, groaning at the name of the biggest douchebag in his class, and reluctantly set to work, doodling on his blotter between grumbles at the quality of the work. A bird in flight, a dragon, a heart, a side profile of sweeping lashes, tiny nose and wide lips framed by trailing hair. Perhaps he should be an artist, huddling in a garret drawing his naked lover. He smiled wryly at the thought, his practical Northern nature laughing at his foolishness. 

She brought the outside and everything he was longing for with her as she stepped through the door and locked it, a soft blue dress dotted with cherries with buttons undone to show the curve of her small breasts, towering red heels, the scent of Dior and the natural grass smell of her hair. She gave him the smile of a woman who knew her place and stepped forward, dropping her bag to the floor as she rounded the desk and sat in his lap without speaking. 

She took his mouth in a kiss that was like the brush of wings, then deep and filthy, her probing tongue making the smouldering fire in his groin flare up. Her hands were roaming, loosening his hair from its knot, plucking off his glasses, ruffling his beard, skimming over his throat. Possessive, confident, pleased noises in her chest at her explorations. He sat there passive, letting her explore him thoroughly, letting her drag and nip at his lips and veil him with her white-gold hair. He was hard in an instant, and when he opened his eyes her green-blue orbs were knowing, naked. 

‘Now,’ she said simply. ‘I want it now, Jon Snow. I want to give myself  _ here _ .’ 

He had instructed her to beg, but instead it was a declaration, a surrender that made him forget everything but her and the ache in his balls and the tingling in his fingers as they sunk into the firm flesh of her buttocks. She was bare beneath her dress, a breast peeking above her neckline with a nipple he had to taste. He imagined her showering in the staff shower, donning her dress with nothing beneath, thinking of how best to make him nuts. He lost his veneer of distance, plundering whatever he could reach with hands and mouth until she was squirming against his cock, yelping softly when his fingers delved and found her juicy and plump. 

‘I miss this pretty cunt,’ he growled into her breast, finding the words to resume mastery, sinking two fingers to the knuckle,  _ fuck _ , she was liquid fire, sucking at his hand greedily. ‘I miss being inside you. When I’ve had my fill of fucking your tight arse I want that cunt again. Not soft, not sweet, until you’re so bruised and sore you’ll offer your arse again just to make it stop.’ 

She gave a bubbling moan, tugging at his hair to make him look at her, her eyes dilated and dazed, lips chewed, face scraped by his beard. ‘I’m so empty,’ she breathed. ‘Fill me up.’ 

He groaned and snatched at her, but she slithered off his lap, a flash of her bare bottom as she bent over her bag, turning and pressing something into his hand, a small bottle of oil, leaning in to kiss him with a snap of teeth and an expectant look. He reached inside himself and set his need loose, swatting her sharply to make her yelp again before he spun her around to land facedown across his desk, his work tipping to the floor in a gratifying mess. She was laid out, mussed skirts, pale rounded flesh and a pink puckered hole above her gleaming slit, his sophisticated virgin. 

He caressed her reverently with one hand, freeing his cock with the other, stroking himself for temporary ease, then he thought of the ties in his bottom drawer he kept there for times he needed to look smart, which were mercifully rare. He had no urge to spank her, but he remembered what she told him, she wanted to be bound when he broke her in, and he was always ready to please her. ‘There’s no backing out now, love,’ he said thickly, running a hand between her thighs to spread them wider, her feet against the legs of the desk, her heels still on. ‘But just to make sure, I’m going to tie you down.’  

It was tricky to bind her spread-eagled, and the muscles of her inner thighs were stretched taut, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, her breath hitching, her profile wary as he smoothed the hair away to check on her. He kissed her flushed cheek, fingers tweaking her clit, the scent of her arousal making his mouth water. He sat down in his chair, handling his cock with lazy strokes as he bent to mouth her, licking a stripe from front to rear, ensuring she was good and riled so it wouldn’t hurt too much. 

He collected where she dripped honey and eased inside her bottom, the clench of muscles around two fingers making him groan into the mouthful he sucked at. She was going to feel  _ incredible _ . He had only done this once, and it had been a dismal experience highly resented by his partner, but not his Dany. She mewled and shuddered and drenched his face with her juices as he nibbled and dragged and splayed his hand to open her, but not too much, he wanted her to resist every inch. 

He removed his hand and lapped at the tiny hole shamelessly, eliciting a stream of whines, the taste musky but pleasant, but then he couldn’t tease any longer. He was so full, his balls like stones, his inner beast slavering, his lover not quite ready but ready to submit. He planted a hand flat on the desk, mounting her and lining up after dribbling and smearing the oil between her cheeks. She cried and squirmed when he pushed past and made her take the swollen head of him, but he made an incoherent crooning noise and proceeded. 

So tight it was hurting him, so hot it was scorching, he could not hold back, wrenching her apart until he was through the clenched channel and buried to the hilt, and still, utterly still, struggling for air and wits and listening to her shocked, shuddery cry. He felt no guilt, only sordid ownership. Every part of her was now his. She was brave and tough and breathing through it, not speaking the safe word, trembling like a leaf and falling silent. He moved within her, a cautious twist, and she growled at him from beneath her hair. ‘More, break me in two, make me all yours.’ 

The effort of holding back was excruciating. He slipped a hand beneath her, finding her split like an overripe peach, his fingers fitting inside her molten core, her clit a swollen bump he carefully thumbed. She made a savage noise and bucked impatiently, but all he did was kiss her until his teeth found her jugular and bit down, senses filling with the perfume of her, rich and maddening. He wanted to experience that first thrust again, so he drew back and left her empty, fumbling for the bottle and squirting more oil into her arse so he could ride her ragged. 

She arched up on her hands and backed onto him, the thready sound of pain cut off, replaced by a deep groan. He clapped a hand over her mouth, spine aching with the effort of fucking her at such an angle but the rush of nerves down his legs, the tight pulse in his balls at the close stroke of her, the snap inside his swirling mind was audible. He rose up and hoped she would keep it down, grasping her buttocks and spreading her wider, watching himself disappear into her, the sounds he made, the incoherent words spilling from his mouth, he was not himself but that other person she brought out in him. 

‘That’s it, take my cock, all of it...such a good whore...so  _ good _ …’

He wasn’t going to last, it was too overwhelming, he would have to train himself over time to draw it out to prolong the pleasure and pain of it. Sweat beaded on his brow and dropped on her flushed skin, the surge in the pit of his belly from letting loose was intoxicating, but he found the strength to take care of her, manipulating her clit and filling her gaping cunt with his hand until he heard a scream cut off by teeth biting down on her lip to cut the wild noise. He was caught, trapped, sucked down by the sweet ripples of her body going on and on. 

She twitched and bucked, his weight collapsing over her to hold her still, the dam inside him breaking, an answering burst in his brain like a bonfire flaring up on a cold night. Not an empty, clinical release while she lay bound and unfulfilled and sullied, but a mutual crescendo, their bodies joined with no beginning and end, her climax as much as a gift as her visit, intruding into his mundane, unsatisfying life and filling it with air and light, and sin. 


	13. Act IV Part 1

_ _

_ A/N: I haven’t forgotten about my other 2 fics that are in dire need of an update, but I wrote this under various trees this afternoon to get me back in the mood. Dedicated to Daenerys1417, who is an enthusiastic fan of this fic, always makes me laugh and is forever salty in an entertaining way. Also because her Secret Santa dicked her over. Enjoy and beware. Thanks to **Justwanderingneverlost** for the new moodboard.  _

 

She wanted to sip the darkness from his mouth like the finest of red wines until she was giddy with intoxication, her mind full of bubble and limbs weak and unresponsive, her body a vessel, an intriguing plaything to mould and use as he willed. And as her reward, he gave her free reign over him, to twist her fingers in his inky curls, lick his pretty lips, nibble his ears, use her hands and mouth and hair to map every particle of his flesh, from the skewed peak of his glorious hair to his long, elegant toes. 

She straddled his face and demanded he serve her with his tongue until she wailed and fell face first into the cold iron fretwork of his headboard, satisfied but empty, still empty. She returned the favour and licked and suckled at his balls and traced and probed the cleft of his arse until he whimpered like a lost child. She sucked him down into her practiced throat and bobbed until he cursed and pushed her off, then turned her over and had her, denying her again, grunting in animal enjoyment as her broken-in body resisted, then finally yielded to his smooth, powerful thrusts. 

He gave her everything, except for one thing. 

There were names for it, the way she was being used. Filthy, technical terms she had learned during her online adventures when she was single and wistful, dabbling in the dark, ritualised world she was now fully immersed in with her dominant lover. She did not speak them, she hoarded them in her mind like curious objects, turning them over whenever she thought of their next encounter, in his flat or hers, never again in their respective offices, as the way he took her required privacy and most of all preparation. She was glad she had given herself over in his office once, a memory to tide him over whenever he was frustrated and moody, but never again. The risk was too much, and she wasn’t the kind of girl who liked an audience. 

The words she mulled over now as she entered the narrow, dingy lobby of his flat, leaving the wholesome and  mundane scene of people hurrying home, walking children and dogs, spilling from the corner pub, the molten gold of a setting sun gilding the crumbling terraced houses. She slammed the fire door behind her and closed herself in for the night, sandals clicking on the worn stone steps, a counterpoint to what was repeating in her head, her hand compulsively going to the silver bracelet on her wrist, a tiny lock decorated with a ruby like a drop of blood, the key held in his wallet. 

_ Vaginal chastity, anal slave, backdoor sub, anal slut _ . 

She shuddered and clasped her thighs together in a pause, the hollow ache in her neglected cunt matched by the rawness between her cheeks. It had been two weeks, and with limited time to meet and merge due to their respective end of semester workloads she still hadn’t quite adjusted to his current rule, her body sore and startled, her pleasure sharp and shocking, and he hadn’t had his fill yet. She felt grimy, though she was sweet, sleek and groomed. She felt like the lowest of whores, though no woman was better tended and worshiped. She felt bruised and torn, though she was already sticky with arousal. The dichotomy was slowly driving her mad. 

She had spent the late afternoon in the park gaining what colour she could from the weak English sun, and after she had bathed and prepared, she couldn’t face the itchy, clingy restriction of fancy lingerie Jon was just going to tear off or push aside. She wore a long, loose summer frock and was bare beneath, her small breasts moving freely beneath the embroidered cheesecloth, her heavy hair bundled up in a messy bun, her overnight bag of tricks slung over her slightly tender shoulder. 

When she entered without knocking she found him sprawled on the leather couch in a pair of running shorts and nothing else, the warm evening turning the air thick and close, a gleam of sweat on his ribbed stomach, his coffee coloured eyes sleepy as he took her in, a lazy but lethal predator drowsing while he waited. At once, she wondered what he had planned for her, his lady, his semi-dutiful pet. 

There was nothing, at first. Jon called her love though hadn’t yet said the three words she was both waiting for and dreading, he set her on his lap and asked her about her day, he buried his face in her neck and sniffed her with a happy rumble. She wanted to hear it, she could see glimpses of it in his expressive eyes more and more, but she was afraid of it. This infatuation meant that she would love him so hard that he could easily destroy her.

To banish her qualm of fear, she filled the corners of his silence with voluble chatter, his taut, disciplined body relaxed and loose under her weight, his gruff replies not signalling boredom and impatience, but contentment. She sniffed him in turn, his fancy lad shampoo, the musk of his milky skin, ran her braceleted hand over his pectorals to feel the sparse hairs there, nipped at his fat lower lip when she ran out of chat. His eyelashes lowered and he breathed her in to the bottom of his lungs. ‘How are you feeling tonight?’

Her answer would help guide his actions, so she chose wisely. ‘Sore, so sore, and yet empty,’ she said in a small, innocent voice. His eyes were closed to her now, but his hand scooped up her white skirts and he palmed her between her damp thighs. 

‘And yet you’re dripping,’ he purred. ‘I could smell you when you came in. I think, no, I  _ know _ you like this. You like the pain with the pleasure, you like walking around feeling used and raw and stretched.’ 

She gasped and felt her face flame, as always a little incredulous how such a subtle, careful man should find those words inside himself. She rewarded him with her own, usually more nimble tongue, licking his lips before whispering them into his mouth. ‘Mmm, I do like it,’ she mused. ‘But my cunt is so empty and achy I wish you would give in and fill me up, just once. Use my cunt before you use my arse, I need to feel you in me again.’

He stroked her slit delicately as he considered, but then his fingers were pushing in her, three in a wrench of muscles, teeth in her throat in warning, a circle of punctures that made her hiss. ‘Need I remind you who is in control here?’ he rebuked her, voice gentle despite the twin penetration. He was right, she was so wet his hand was buried to the knuckle. She wanted him on his terms, knowing he had her, knew her, would please her by twisting her desire into an exciting shape. ‘Take that hippy girl dress off and get on the bed on all fours to present for inspection.’

Once she stumbled across the room, stripped and knelt, back arched and legs spread correctly, the leather cuffs were threaded through the headboard to imprison her, the ankle cuffs following with the spreader bar to hold her in position, ragged breathing and pinches and light slaps and kisses down her spine, a drawer opening, blinded and smothered by pillows, denied looking at him or touching him. 

‘That greedy, gaping cunt of yours is very tempting, love,’ he observed as he climbed up behind her and settled at last, skimming over her bound body with reverent hands. ‘God, you’re so fucking beautiful, on your knees but still like a queen,’ he added, breaking character with the soft catch of his voice. ‘I still don’t know how I got so lucky.’ 

She snorted affectionately, despite the tension ratcheting in her core, waiting to be beaten, tormented, invaded and laid waste. ‘For your lovely face and your very pretty hair,’ she retorted. ‘Never cut it, or I won’t let you do this again.’

He laughed at this, his bearded face suddenly nuzzling hers, a glimpse of warm brown eyes, a kiss on her hot cheek. ‘Such a superficial madam,’ he murmured, then pulled away. She could feel his ready cock pressed against her cleft, and despite their amusement, the normal couple moment, she knew he would not be diverted. Once he slipped into this master-servant game, he was lost as much as she. ‘I think you’re asking for big trouble with that smart mouth.’ 

She could only nod. Like a sick little bitch, she craved trouble, the crack of his hand, mmm, the flick of the riding crop, which he started to lay against her inviting opening in little slaps that made her yelp, the head of his cock, intimidating in girth, nudging against her back hole, the rasp of his voice ordering her to resist him so he could  _ feel _ her, that tight virgin squeeze,  _ hear _ her cry of anguish as he pressed home. 

He was always careful at first and he was again, despite his haste to take her, squirting oil into her and around, teasing her swollen clit with greased fingers, testing her to make sure she was ready for this. His fingers were grinding in her poor cunt again, making her moan in bliss, so slick he could fit four of them at once, and she rolled her hips shamelessly to meet the abrasive thrusts, seeking relief. Whenever he fucked her arse her cunt would gripe and pine and become so messy with juices she ruined the sheets, and her orgasms would rock her whole body while her walls clasped at nothing. It was agony, pure and sweet, and she was in for it again. 

‘I can’t wait,’ he gasped, his hand slithering free and moving his length into position. ‘Need to ride you hard...ohh, nice and slow, squeeze me...there’s a good little slut.’

She obediently clenched her ring of muscle to fight him, but was so well oiled he slid deep in one movement, the pain a dull throb instead of a razor-sharp ache, but still there, making her whine and shudder as he overwhelmed her, cramming her full until his balls were flush against her split folds. She let herself go, let him dictate, griping and pleading to wind up and goad but tapping into that dark well of pleasure, unable to touch herself to control it, entirely at his mercy. 

He angled above her in a crouch of sweaty limbs, fucking her slowly to loosen her then speeding up at her whorish pleas to be fucked until it hurt her again, his weight pinning her down, his hand looped in her cuffs for leverage, the push and pull and wrenching groans and incoherent words burrowing into her most private self and cracking it open, hammered and bruised and called all those names she should hate but relished. 

She didn’t want him to touch her where she was burning and throbbing, she didn’t want to find the precipitous edge with her curled toes and fall too soon. She wanted to hold back until her mind was full of fire and stars and her bones thrummed, but it was too much, too intense, her body needed to cower and retreat from the buffeting pleasure, it needed her to kick off the edge and fall and fall, praying that he would follow and catch her before she hit the ground below. 

It was going to be a long night, the night of bondage she had dreamed of, and he was giving it to her. Sometimes it was best to leave dreams where they were, because after they were all played out, what was left?


	14. Act IV Part 2

_ A/N: Hello, neglected kink readers. As I eye the end of Game of Thrones, I am contemplating wrapping up some of my fics. This little experiment into BDSM that is very distracting to write has a finite point, only 3 chapters to go. Chapters may be a little longer to deal with some complicated feels, here is Jon smoking and brooding. _

 

The old sash window creaked and sent flakes of paint and dust falling as he pushed it open, planting his arse on its usual spot on the splintered sill, dangling his bare legs over the edge. He breathed in the night air before he lit up, exhaust fumes, the smell of fish and chips and spilled beer from the corner pub, a hint of something green and growing from the nearby park that teased his senses, reminding him of home. 

The sky glowed from thousands of electric lights, smothering the stars, but one or two sailed high above. The misty drapes breathed with him in a light breeze as he sat and smoked and stared into space, leaving the vision of exhausted, dishevelled, alluring womanhood tied to his bed for a moment. Instead of the distant heavens, he thought of an old childhood memory, of sneaking into his stepmother’s pantry and finding a chocolate cake, cream and jam filled and iced prettily, ready for some grown up party. In a moment of madness he had shut himself in and eaten that cake, every single bite, until his stomach was groaning in agony, until there was nothing left but a chocolate smeared plate. 

He had gorged himself sick, put himself off chocolate for life, and earned a solid belt around the ear from the icy bitch who had never liked him, but while he was stuffing his face, every moment was bliss. His mouth twisted, and he sucked on his disgusting and delicious cigarette harder, acknowledging where the memory came from. Tonight was the very same, indulging himself and her with every dark, twisted fantasy until there was nothing left, emptied out, stripped bare of all disguise. Only himself and all his faults, his moods, his boring and annoying parts. A boyfriend, a partner, not a master. 

Whether Dany would want him afterwards, he still didn’t know, but he was determined. He would push her and push her to her very limits, until she reached the threshold of crying her safe word to end it, and then he would tell her what was in his heart, hoping to be given the same in return instead of a pout or a flippant laugh. She was wary and guarded, as wary as him beneath all her chatter and casual affection and cuddles. He took a deep breath and crushed his smoke dead before finishing it, dropping it on the fire escape to pick up later, and squared his bare shoulders, ready to go back into the fray. 

He had fucked her the only way he was using her at present, then released her legs and left her bound to the headboard, dozing in her post-coital haze, but his wandering, wistful mind was sharpening again, drawing on the depths of his hunger, to strike, stroke, taste and plunder. He wasn’t done, and she wasn’t done, never mind that he had come so hard he felt drained and weak legged, and left her smeared in oil with bruises on her hipbones from holding her down, both openings used and swollen. 

He stood up and slammed the window closed, his cock stirring beneath the sheet wrapped around himself, blinking at the sight of her sprawled, her arms cuffed above her head, long lashes quivering, wide lips smiling slightly, silver hair fanned out over the pillows. Her nipples had pricked in the breeze from the window and were as tight and red as new cherries, matching the lips of her cunt. As he approached she stirred, her toes curling into the mattress, blue-gold eyes opening, cloudy with satisfaction, then sharpening as she noted the stern look he’d affected. 

‘That’s a filthy habit,’ she purred at him, scooting up against the pillows to lessen the stretch in her arms. ‘Lucky I like all your filthy habits, Jon Snow.’

He hid a smile and sat on the bed, letting the sheet fall to the floor, one hand trailing up her stomach to tweak a nipple. ‘If you get cheeky with me you know what happens,’ he warned her lightly. Her lovely diffuse eyes sparked with mischief.

‘You haven’t disciplined me in a while, I must be being too good lately,’ she replied, lifting a foot to poke him in the groin. ‘Let me think of something to make you mad about.’ She mimed a thinking hard pose, despite her lack of hands, and he had to duck his chin to hide his silly grin. He loved her quick tongue more than anything about her, even what she let him do to her. He fought his face to resume a scowl. 

‘I think begging me to take you where it’s not allowed and coming too fast are naughty behaviours for a good sub,’ he said roughly, closing his eyes to her lure, scenting coconut oil, sweat, and their mingled mess. His come was still inside her, she wasn’t allowed to clean up until he allowed it, and he got a vile, dark thrill at her so full of his seed at the end it was dripping from her back hole. He thought of her rosy cunt, so tempting and empty, used only for punishment. He loved taking her arse, filling every corner of where he shouldn’t go, making her sob and struggle and then explode violently, but he missed it too, where she was slick and accommodating and soft. But he wouldn’t give in, not yet. 

He left off handling her pretty breasts and stroked himself idly, finding his cock hard again, balls taut and drawn, and contemplated his next move. In his drawer was the black silk cords for binding her, and a toy she had bought for herself and left there without telling him, startling him when he opened it the other morning looking for a lighter. Ten inches long, as thick as his wrist, and dotted with bumps and protrusions that would chafe and abrade her tender flesh. It would be a punishment as well as answering her need to be filled, the surge of lust nearly choked him. 

‘You said you feel empty,’ he said idly. ‘Well, I have a cure for that.’

She was eyeing him, following the lazy motion of his hand, face flaring with longing, thighs parting, a sheen of fresh arousal on her nether lips. She whimpered when he left her and went for the drawer, and when he returned with a bundle of cords and her new toy, she bit her lip, her expression now suitably meek. She didn’t fight him when he looped the bonds around her ankles, though there was a stubborn line to her jaw and her eyes were veiled. His sub was very flexible and good at enduring his experiments in tying her up, but it was an uncomfortable position, deliberately so, her feet bound backwards over her body looped to the bars, thighs split and arse raised. 

She couldn’t move much, and she was at the perfect height and exposure to be penetrated in whatever way pleased him, completely reliant on him and her own mind to reach climax. It took a lot of trust, a deep well of it he hoped she could draw on. He didn’t want to hear her cry it out, that strange word  _ dracarys _ , as that would mean he had gone too far, but he wanted to sense it in her mind, the breaking point, cutting the chains that tied them together, leaving them free to forge new ones until all this play and punishment was nothing but an occasional indulgence. 

When he was done, he crouched close and loomed over her, stroking the dildo the same way he’d stroked himself. ‘You are a filthy little slut, Dany,’ he said in a rasp. ‘A greedy whore who bought this toy and left it for me to find, hoping to get fucked with it.’ He picked up the discarded bottle of oil, dripping it over the implement liberally. She was soaking wet and whining, but he didn’t want to hurt her more than she was wanting, the bloody thing was enormous, bigger than what hung heavy at his loins, aching and resentful, but ohh she was going to drive him mad, struggling to fit the obscene thing inside her tight cunt. The visuals would haunt him for days, making him gasp and blanch when they floated through his mind at inopportune times.

He was rough with her, introducing the head of the dildo, parting her flesh and easing three inches inside her. She strained against her restraints and whimpered, brows creasing, pleas falling from her in a tangle. ‘No, oh God no. Please sir, it’s too big...ohhh I can’t.’ He ignored her, knowing it was teasing and goading, to make his balls twist with need and his blood surge through his brain, knowing she would stretch around it with ease, though she would feel it in the morning, and all the rest. 

Another three inches, her breath hissing, her legs and arms battling her restraints, then a great wail that shook her when she was fed the rest. She was so full her flesh pulled around the buried toy tightly, thighs quivering. He took pity on her and bent his head instead of thrusting it back and forth inside her, letting his tongue find her exposed clit and circling it lightly. At her wild mewling he knew she was alright, and he grasped the dildo and moved it slightly as he lapped at her firmly. Even when he was trying to be cruel, it was all about her, her pleasure the reward he sought. 

‘Mmm, do you want more?’ he murmured into her. Fuck, she tasted sweet, she always did, especially when she was on the edge. ‘I think you do, I think you can take it now. Answer me.’ He sunk his teeth into her nub lightly, and she yelped.

‘Yes, I can take it. Fuck me with it, bruise me with it,’ she groaned, her body a contorted bundle of tension, sweat forming on the crease between thigh and buttock which he dipped to sample. He slipped his middle finger into her arse, feeling through the thin wall of skin how full she was, making him growl like an animal. He was going to make her come, then he was going to withdraw that toy and have her arse again. Slowly this time, looking into her anguished eyes while he plundered her, looking for that spark beneath the warring emotions that told him he was right, that she felt the same for him as he did for her. 


	15. Act IV Part 3

_ A/N: Hmmm, what to say. I’m just going to drop a smut bomb and leave. Enjoy my modern AU stylings, only one chapter left and I probably won’t ever write another. I’m more comfortable with canon or costume porn. For daenerys1417 because she loves this x _

 

She was thoroughly curbed, exhausted and marked. Ligature marks on her ankles, bruises on her haunches, a bite mark on her throat, and tears, snotty, messy tears after she came and came and begged and begged to be untied, left to rest and cradle herself like a precious crystal ornament thrown to the floor and fractured with cracks. But he wouldn’t leave her alone. Jon was in her face, in her nose, in her ears, wrapped around her and crooning and soothing, his thick seed burning inside her, her poor bruised body reeling from the twin assault of toy and cock, especially the last. 

Bound and helpless, forced to trust him utterly, unable to hide from the shift of emotions in his dark eyes, savage and yearning, slow and sweet and then harsh, withdrawing entirely and wrenching her open repeatedly, the pain of it, the pleasure of it. She didn’t know herself anymore, but she thought she knew him better now. He wanted to end this game, and his strategy was this, to end it by breaking her into fragments to expose the girl beneath, not a sultry, standoffish siren scared of giving her heart away, but the simple girl he really wanted. 

She was quiet, pretending to doze in his arms, making little mewling, mumbling noises in response to the husky words of gratitude he poured into her ear. It was late now, and she wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep, wake in the morning and face him with her real face and admit she wanted more, but the night wasn’t hers to control unless she gave Jon the word, her safe word, and the sick part of her wanted to spin this out like a black skein of silk, see what else her lover had buried deep in his soul. 

After a while, he left her, sliding off the bed and disappearing, her lids too heavy to lift and watch where he went, but her ears tracked the sounds through her drugged stupor, whisky pouring, the thunk of the bottle, bare feet padding, the rush of water pouring in the bathroom, the splashing of the tub filling, the old claw-footed tub which was perfect for two small bodies. She sniffed herself, smelling sweat and coconut oil and come and the musky salt of her juices, felt the ache in her legs and arms from being restrained, and sighed in relief. 

He was going to clean her up, care for her before he messed her up again. God help her, she doubted she could take much more of her arse being used exclusively, unless she took him from above, sat on his girth and rode him in careful movements, if he would permit it. She was spent and raw, and her neglected cunt was still empty, pining and weeping nectar. If she was meek and good, an obedient slave to the bittersweet end, perhaps he would break and take her there, end this torturous night with her triumph. 

‘Come love, let’s get you in the bath.’

She was picked up like a doll, and she tucked her face into his neck to hide the question there, whether she was his love, or the game they had been playing for weeks was a struggle for power that went beyond her submission, that he was waiting to see her at her most vulnerable, then bring her crashing down. He was moody, introspective, and reserved with a sometimes innocent sweetness, but an absolute animal in bed. Idealistic but often cynical. He barely talked when he didn’t have to, leaving her to read him by his eyes and actions. There were so many facets to this quiet man the confidence she had was shaky, but she thought she could see his heart beneath. 

In the warm water, held in his lap, soft, unscented soap on his strong hands, running over her curves and between her thighs and buttocks, digging into her neck to free her of knots, little kisses scratchy with whiskers. She filled her palm with the soap and reached beneath her to clean his cock thoroughly, flaccid when she began but semi-full by the time she was done, a pleasing lump beneath her bottom. He should be a drained husk after what he had unleashed on her, but she knew better. He had at least one more session brewing in his mind, and the hefty glass of scotch he was sharing with her would only fuel him on, not make him fold. 

‘End of semester is coming up,’ he rumbled, tucking her bedraggled hair behind her ear to kiss it. ‘I want to take you home to Yorkshire with me. My father has a cottage on the moors we can stay in. You can meet my family, but we would have our own space in case they drive us crazy.’

She felt her girl’s heart swell at this sudden offer, dragged out of her meandering lusty thoughts to a different reality, one where they did couple things, like meeting his family, planning a holiday, building a future that went beyond how he was going to fuck her that particular evening. 

‘You know me, I like warm places,’ she said. ‘But I like this idea of a lonely cottage on the moors, you and me. Very gothic. I expect we could get up to wicked things...’ 

He snorted in his beguiling way. ‘Your mind, always in the gutter. I was thinking more of nice long walks and you cooking me terrible dinners.’ She turned her head to give him a flash of her eyes, finding him flushed from the steam, his coffee-dark gaze penetrating. At his searching look, she softened for a moment, dropping a kiss on his tempting lips. 

‘I shall be on my best behaviour, the perfect girlfriend, but not just yet,’ she murmured, and he sighed into her open mouth, a single breath before his teeth bit into her lower lip.

‘I thought I had broken you in at last, when you wept for me.’ The whisper was as soft as a caress, as sharp as his bite. 

‘I am full of cracks, very tired and very sore, and still empty, but you haven’t heard me say it.’

She was panting through the words, the flick of his tongue, his white teeth, the rising scent of sex, one hand in her hair, another cupping her mound, twisted in an uncomfortable position again. ‘I don’t want to hear you say it,’ he growled. ‘I want to  _ feel _ it.’

Dragged from the bath, soaking wet and trailing a fountain of water across the lino and then the carpet, struggling and griping and slapping, a thread of flaring, sudden violence to the way they touched and grappled and kissed. Thrown on the bed on her face, barked at to get up,  _ get up on all fours, you filthy, greedy slut... _ the lover with the soft eyes was gone, the hopeful girl was gone, she was his whore again, one last descent into madness, like the flare of a fire fighting a soothing wind. 

The trickle and smear of oil around her back hole, puckered in protest, probing fingers, crying in pain, but still mute, it wasn’t even in her mind, the safe word, only the litany of  _ I trust him, I trust him with me, all of me _ . Even when he began to beat her it was still there, even when she yelped at the rain of blows, the disciplined strokes of his palm across her poor, used bottom, even as she contemplated him entering her and tearing her in two. He had a strong arm, and it hurt badly, not playful at all, the burning wash of the spanks shredding her breath to gasps. 

He paused to probe her again, his fore and middle fingers hooking into her, checking that she was still full of his seed. ‘You get to choose,’ he grunted at her. ‘Which plug do you want to take in your arse, and it better be an answer that pleases me.’

He was going to fuck her mouth then, finish off by coming in her throat, leaving her to sleep an uncomfortable sleep with her bottom plugged, or the other option. She was going to get what she craved to end this. ‘My own,’ she said after spitting out a mouthful of hair. ‘In my handbag there’s a velvet pouch. I want what is inside, I bought it for you as well as me.’ 

It was metal, cold, sleek silver in a pleasing shape that fitted her perfectly, big enough to test her, a cunning weight inside the implement that would roll about if her lover was minded to grant her wish and pound her cunt.. And she really needed that cold feeling, groaned in pure pleasure when he knelt behind her and penetrated her arse with the rounded tip. It glided inside her with the customary wrench of pain, and he followed it, his fully roused cock nudging against her gaping lips, so close to where she needed him. 

She shuddered as she adjusted to the icy plug, then took a breath of anticipation, waiting. He covered her in a blanket of muscle and bone, his wild hair tickling her skin, his waiting cock a brand against her obediently raised arse, the only obedient part of her. Would he roll her over and straddle her face, dribble his seed all over her and curse her, or curse her doubly as he surrendered and entered her? It had been long since she had held him against her womb and rocked him deep, too long. 

‘Please,’ she moaned. ‘Oh please, so close, just fuck me, I want you so badly, I’m sorry I’m such a greedy, useless whore, but please…’

‘You are not a whore,’ he hissed into her beating pulse. ‘You are _mine_.’

She found herself spun about so fast her eyes couldn’t track him, a blur of pale skin and black hair and shifting muscles, shunted up in a ball against the headboard, her hands clutching the duvet, then clutching him, the planes of his back, the line of his spine, not passive but demanding entry with her tongue, kissing him in dips and swirls. He made a savage noise, a guttural growl which threatened violence, but then a desperate whimper, her leg wrapped around his hip, a slow push past her abraded walls, the tight fit of the plug, right to the root, notched against her womb. 

She howled and arched, the bliss like a thousand sharp pieces of her coursing through her veins, and held on tight, anchoring her teeth in his throat, marking him as he had marked her. Through the maelstrom of victory and surrender that swirled in her brain she pictured it, that tiny whitewashed cottage in a sea of purple heather, the door painted red, and inside it a crackling fire of peat, two lovers curled on a couch reading books and drinking wine, contemplating going to bed to make love and sleep, the comforting and mundane. 

She wanted  _ this _ , and she wanted that vision, and there was no reason she couldn’t have it all. 

‘Love,’ she breathed into his heated skin. ‘My love.’ 


End file.
